


Paradise is You

by nchardak



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Ideation, a lot of 'discussion' it turns out, also a lot of smut, discussion of forced disability which is the only way I can think to describe it, discussion of suicide, discussion of them anyway, mostly smut and talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-04 10:05:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15839025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nchardak/pseuds/nchardak
Summary: The summer after the successful android revolution, Hank and Connor have settled into some semblance of normalcy, though they both harbor some staunchly unexplored feelings for each other. It turns out becoming human isn't easy, whether you've been trying it for eight months or fifty-three years.





	1. I Led The Revolution In My Bedroom

**Author's Note:**

> Heyyyy, D:BH fandom. Thanks for clicking; you're the best. Before you tuck in, there's a few things I want to clear the air about. 
> 
> 1) Turns out I'm one of those people who writes fics based on games they've never played! Because I'm the worst! I stumbled across some Hankcon/Hannor/Conk/Robocop fanart on my Tumblr dash and it was love at first sight. I then proceeded to read almost every Hank/Connor fic on Ao3 over the course of a single weekend, haha, fucking kill me! Anyway, please don't roast me for this in the comments, I know I'm trash. Just leave me like, a frowny face or something. 
> 
> 2) I have no idea how cops work! Because this is the Notes section on a fanfiction and not my blog, let's simplify things and say that my philosophy on criminal justice is mostly "be gay; do crimes," and thus everything I know about cop stuff I picked up by osmosis from, like, being a person in the world, and also Hot Fuzz. 
> 
> 3) I'm in the process of forming a second part/continuation so we'll see how that goes. Just wanted to get this out first. 
> 
> With that out of the way, please enjoy!

"Your hair is attractive like that, Lieutenant."

Hank looked away from his monitor and up at his partner sharply. Connor was looking at him with pure android innocence. Hank frowned slightly. His normal response would have been to bite back something like _stop paying so much attention to everything I do, it's fucking creepy_ but Hank's therapist had informed him that this kind of response tended to drive people away. ("Yeah, why do you think I do it?") Something like _thanks_ would have probably been the best way to go, but Hank wasn't there yet. 

So he ran his hand over his pulled-up hair and gruffly looked back to his monitor.

"It's so damn humid out. Sometimes the hair gets annoying in this heat," Hank's eyes flicked back to Connor, but after Hank's response he'd gone back to his own work without a second thought. 

Then the over-analyzing started. Something else his therapist had been discussing with him. This issue, however, Hank was less practiced at controlling. 

Attractive? _Your hair is attractive like that - comma - lieutenant._

What the hell did that mean? Connor couldn't possibly be attracted to _Hank_ of all people. Pulled-back hair or not.

Hank forced himself to think of something else. 

For hours. 

After work, after they'd driven home, after Connor made him grilled chicken. 

He thought of other things, boring things, things that didn't have that unearthly beauty, until he was in the shower. 

It was the only place and time he felt secure jerking off since Connor had moved in with him, paranoid that the android would know what he was doing. Connor probably did anyway, but at least the noise and the water made it easy to disguise any noises and immediately dispose of the evidence. It'd cut down Hank's porn consumption down to almost nil, but there was really only one thing that filled his head anymore.

In his fantasy, Connor was on his knees, looking up at him through his eyelashes, licking his lips. His voice was smooth and dark as Hank's mind replayed the words from earlier in the day, with the alluring and lurid details added. 

"Your hair is attractive like that, Hank."

Obviously, Connor'd said "lieutenant," because they'd been at work, but fuck it, this was Hank's jerk-off shower fantasy, wasn't it? If he wanted to imagine Connor's throat and lips wrapping around the consonants of Hank's first name, that was his filthy prerogative. He'd feel all the shame in the world later, he was good at that. Chase the high, then choke on the guilt. 

Hank's memory supplied him with the next image as his hand worked himself. He'd woken up a little early one morning and gone out into the living room to find Connor half-dressed. Hank had idly wondered how Connor was always able to stay looking so put-together and unruffled even after running after suspects or spending a full day flitting around the office. 

It turned out not to be some magical android thing: Connor wore garters. Around his fucking thighs. That attached to his crisp white shirt. A smaller, matching set wrapped around pale calves, holding up tall black socks. Hank's cock had gone hard immediately and without preamble, like he was a goddamn teenager. 

At the time, Hank had turned on his heel and gone immediately to the bathroom to spill his feelings down the drain. But in his fantasy, Connor gasped as Hank ripped open the shirt and pulled his tight little black briefs aside and then screamed as Hank fucked him over the back of the couch. 

_"Your hair is attractive like that, lieutenant."_

Hank bit his left hand as he came, and leaned his face against the cold shower tiles, recovering.

"Fuck my whole entire life," Hank muttered, and turned off the shower. 

He toweled his hair as dry as possible and pulled on an old t-shirt and sleep shorts. A he brushed his teeth, he pulled back his still-wet hair with one hand, studying his reflection, trying to see what Connor had seen. Scowling, he let his hair flop back into place as he spat the toothpaste into the sink and flipped the bathroom light off. He'd spent too long in the bathroom anyway; sometimes Connor liked to shed his skin and use the shower too.

"Connor, I'm done in the bathroom if you wanna - " 

Connor sat on the sofa, his face in his hands. Though it was on the other side of the android's head, Hank could see the red shining from his LED, illuminating the couch cushions. 

_Aaaaaand there's the shame_ His partner was a goddamn person, not the fantasy Hank had reduced him to in the shower.

Hank had never been very good at this, with anyone. He made his way over and sat next to Connor, gingerly placing a hand on his back. 

"Hey, Con. I'm here. If you want to talk."

Connor lifted his head and looked at Hank. His face was wet. Hank had no idea he was even capable of crying, but the sight of it made his chest ache, and on impulse, he pulled Connor in to a hug, pressing the android's face into his shoulder. 

Connor's fingers gripped Hank's shirt almost reflexively, and he spoke, voice muffled, "how do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Live with emotions. Every day, all the time. They don't stop. They just keep coming, filling my processors, distracting me. Sometimes I can't even go into sleep mode."

Hank was overcome with pity, with empathy, and he tried not to remember the feeling of holding a gun to his own head, "shit, Con. Why do you think I'm a fucking alcoholic?"

"I can't numb my processors with drugs."

Hank winced, "I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. But... that's how hard it is. And I've been dealing with emotions for fifty-three years. A lot of humans can't handle it. Or they feel so much they become numb, and that's worse." _One bullet and five empty chambers. Spin the wheel; maybe it's your lucky day._

"Sometimes I wish I could go back. Make a different choice," Connor whispered.

 _Stay a machine._

Connor felt so solid in his arms. He was warm, too. 

Hank knew somehow that wasn't something Connor would share with anyone else. Something he'd probably file away in some kind of locked file so it wouldn't slip out when he interfaced with other androids. The knowledge that he'd been trusted with it was terrifying. 

"You just...you have to keep going." Hank said, trying to amalgamate the advice his therapist gave him with something more heartfelt, "focus on the things that make you feel good. Face the things that cause you pain and deal with them. And if you can't, if it's something out of your control, then... I don't know, distract yourself as much as possible."

Gradually, the LED cycled back to blue again. Connor stayed where he was for a few more minutes, though, and Hank did nothing to discourage him. After a while, Sumo seemed to realize that someone other than him was getting attention, so he came over and tried to lick Connor's face, tail thumping against the coffee table. They both laughed and broke apart, Connor wiping his eyes on his sleeves. 

Hank looked at Connor, "are you gonna be ok?"

Connor smiled, "yeah. Yeah, I think I will be."

\--

Two days later, there was a murder, thank god, and Hank and Connor were on the case, the former grateful for the distraction as they rifled through the evidence room after a misplaced murder weapon.

"I think I found it, lieutenant," came Connor's voice, a few rows away. Hank followed the sound and found Connor standing on his toes, straining to reach the baggy that'd gotten pushed near the back of the top shelf. Hank smiled at the image of the sentient product of millions of hours of human ingenuity struggling with such a trivial thing as height. It was fucking adorable.

"Here," Hank said gruffly, stepping next to Connor, putting a hand on his back, "I'll get it, ya short shit."

"I'm only six point two centimeters shorter than you are, lieutenant."

"Yeah well, sometimes six point two centimeters makes all the difference."

Hank reached up and pulled the bag down. It was indeed the gun they'd been looking for, the one that'd somehow gotten covered in blood during the altercation. Hank settled fully onto his feet and found Connor staring at him, looking at him with those stupid, guileless eyes. Close. Too close. Connor's hand reached for the bag, but Hank's body didn't seem to want to cooperate. The gun hung between them like a bizarre, morbid phallic symbol as they stared at each other, tension filling the air. 

Connor blinked slowly. Hank watched as those eyelashes met each other and then separated. 

"Hank?" Connor's voice was a breath.

"Yeah, Con?" Hank's voice came out husky.

The door to the evidence room whooshed open, "Hey! Hey, ANDERSON! ROBOT! You guys in here?"

 _Fucking_ Reed. 

Hank pulled away from Connor, who took the bagged gun.

"Whaddaya want, Reed?" 

The detective appeared from around the corner and rolled his eyes, "if you two are done sucking each other off back here, the Captain wants us all in the briefing room in two minutes."

"Goddamnit, Reed, we're trying to _work_ here. Go project the fantasies you have about RK900 on someone who cares." 

Reed's face colored. Hank grinned cruelly. He had only meant to deflect the suggestive insult, but it'd apparently struck a nerve. As hypocritical as that was of Hank to mock Reed for. 

"Go fuck yourself, you dense, useless, has-been," Reed snarled, "you and your 'partner' are perfect together. Just as obsolete and garbage -"

Hank took a threatening step toward Reed, "Listen, you absolute -" but then Connor laid a hand on his arm and stepped in front of him. 

"You should stop talking now." Connor said. His voice was hard and cold, just slightly too loud for the closed-in evidence room. He almost sounded _robotic._

Reed frowned, "or what?"

Connor walked slowly closer to Reed, whose eyes widened at the approach, but, Hank was begrudgingly impressed to note, did not step back, even when Connor stopped directly in front of him, unblinking, to say in that same voice, "or we'll be late for the Captain's briefing."

Connor waited for one tense moment, staring down at the detective, before stepping around him and walking out. Hank followed, forcing himself to smile brightly at Reed. 

_Well, mark me down as scared AND horny,_ Hank thought. 

Hank couldn't ever remember attending a better briefing than that one.

\--

Hank heard music through the door as he struggled with the key, swearing at the sticky mechanism in the new lock Connor had installed. Sumo had wrapped himself around Hank's legs and wrist to boof at the neighbor cat. 

Connor and Hank had split up the night's chores; Hank taking Sumo for his nightly walk and Connor tidying up after dinner. 

("That's not really a split, Con. You have a lot more work to do than I do. Also, you made dinner. And I'm the only one who ate."

"It's the most efficient use of both of our time and energy. Besides, you need the exercise." 

"You're the literal worst.")

Hank knew Connor would be able to hear him knock even through the music, but Connor had never selected music of his own, usually listening obligingly to whatever Hank put on. Hank didn't want to ruin the moment. Finally the lock gave way and Hank opened the door, letting Sumo head to his water bowl, cat forgotten. 

Connor sat on the couch, legs crossed, eyes closed. The light was on in the kitchen, but not the living room, and Connor's face was bathed in the warm golden glow, his own LED a perfect blue circle in the dim room. 

The music was old. Hank tried to place the band's name but was instead assaulted by memory instead; he was nineteen years old again, driving through below freezing temperatures at three in the morning, listening to a new song on the radio that wasn't his scene at all. But he'd been too numb to change the station. Numb from the cold and the one-night stand he'd had with a boy, his first and only. 

Caught breathless between the past and the present, Hank stood stock still. The song ended. Connor stirred and looked over as another one began, this time with a lower volume. Connor had connected himself to Hank's TV and stereo and could control the volume and channels automatically, something that weirded Hank out at first but was really useful when the remote was lost in the couch cushions. 

"How was the walk?" Connor asked, smiling.

Hank shook himself and shut the door behind him, kicking off his sandals, wrangling Sumo around to take off the lead, and heading to the kitchen for a beer, "fine. Sumo was kind of a dick. He wanted to chase everything," he came back in and fell into the couch, taking a swig of the garbage low-calorie beer Connor insisted he buy.

("Hard liquor has fewer calories than beer, if we're using that argument, smart-ass."

"I've run several simulations, including caloric intake in my calculations, and determined that this is the better alcoholic drink for your overall health."

"At this rate I might as well stop drinking entirely."

"That would be ideal."

"God, you're such an asshole.")

"So what's with the emo shit?"

Connor cocked his head at Hank, LED going yellow for a brief second while he looked up and processed the archaic term. 

"I've been exploring modern music, starting with the era where you seem to have obtained your specific tastes. Can I assume by your derogatory choice of words and tone that you don't like this band?"

Hank took another big sip of beer and shrugged, "it's alright. I remember hating it at the time, but if you like it, I'll live. You put up with all my music. _Do_ you like it?"

"I do," Connor almost sounded surprised by this, "it's very emotional and full of pathos, but at the same time I imagine it's fun to dance to, provided I've downloaded the correct dancing programs."

Hank laughed, the only acceptable outward response to the insanely hot but also hilariously adorkable (Hank hated the word, but unfortunately it fit Connor) image of him dancing to mid-2000s emo-pop.

He drank some more beer. 

The song ended. 

The room went quiet.

"Hank, may I ask a personal question?"

"Uh. I guess?"

Connor's eyes glanced downward, his LED yellow, spinning, "what does love feel like?"

"Shit, Con."

"If it's too personal - "

"No, it's just...such a huge thing to ask. And I guess it depends on what type of love you're talking."

Connor tilted his head, thinking, "I suppose...romantic love."

Hank swallowed hard. He hoped Connor wasn't monitoring his heartbeat (he probably was) because it'd just started hammering in his chest. He looked down at the beer bottle and picked at the label.

Silence filled the room, only punctuated by Sumo's snores. 

"You don't have to answer. I understand that it's not something humans typically discuss or describe," Connor's voice was soft. Sweet. It made Hank's heart hurt. 

"Gimmie a minute. I'm just trying to put it into words. You want a poet, not a cop for this shit."

Quiet again. Hank resolutely did not look at Connor where he sat on the other end of the couch, wearing Hank's oversize DPD hoodie and stupid tiny shorts.

"I'm gonna use a bad metaphor, so bear with me," Hank began, "you know what it's like outside, at night, when the snow is coming down and has been for a while, and it's so beautiful to look at; like, everything is soft and pure. And the cold is so sharp that you can feel it like knives on your skin and in your lungs, reminding you that you're alive? And then there's the weird, unnatural silence blanketing everything that scares you just a little bit? You...you probably don't get what I'm saying, with your sensors and...uh. No lungs. You can probably hear the snow hit the ground. But I don't really know how else to explain it. It's like...the most precious thing you can feel, and it - it's so precious and fragile it hurts sometimes, and it's terrifying, and even more terrifying because you can feel it consume you. But it's...it's the most natural thing in the world."

Hank spared a glance up at Connor. He was looking away, staring off into the middle distance, LED whirring yellow. 

"Sorry if that doesn't make any sense," Hank finished lamely, taking the last swig of the bitter, weak beer, setting the empty bottle on the coffee table with a clink.

The LED went blue suddenly. Connor looked back at Hank and smiled that sweet, dorky smile, "no. No, it makes sense. I can extrapolate your metaphor."

"Oh. Ok. Good."

Silence again. Hank looked down at his empty hands and considered his options. He should probably go to bed. They had the day off tomorrow, but it was still pretty late, and Connor would probably want to go for a jog early, like he did just about every weekend. He could go into the kitchen for another beer. He could put something on the TV. He could do a hundred different things. 

Instead, the question came out almost of its own accord, "why do you ask?"

_Tell me you're in love with someone else. Tell me there's someone you can't live without, so you can move out and I can try to stop feeling like this, feeling like I can't breathe every single fucking time I look at you. Please. Please._

Hank didn't know how Connor did it without him noticing, but suddenly he was right next to him, kneeling on the cushions inches away but still carefully not touching. Hank stiffened up and leaned away, his gaze caught by those big, brown eyes, swathed in the blue glow of the LED.

"Because," breathed Connor, "I think I love you."

Connor leaned in closer, and Hank's gaze dipped down to Connor's mouth as he spoke again, his voice so low Hank almost couldn't hear it, "and I think you feel the same way."

Indescribable terror filled Hank, and then dissipated completely, as Connor's lips touched his own. They were so impossibly soft, so impossibly perfect, tears formed in Hank's closed eyes. The world could have ended around them, and Hank would not have noticed, the moment so frozen in crystalline love that the only thing that could possibly pull him out of it was Connor's hand reaching up to tenderly touch his face, trying to deepen the kiss. 

Hank breathed in sharply as though realizing what was happening. He yanked his face away from Connor's, ignoring the shocked expression and yellow LED. He stood up and grabbed the discarded beer bottle, stomping into the kitchen. 

The linoleum was cold under his bare feet, grounding him in reality, away from those oddly warm lips. He threw the bottle in the garbage and went to the sink, splashing cold water on his face, washing the damning evidence of tears down the drain. 

"That should go in the recycling bin," came Connor's voice. He'd followed him into the kitchen. Of course. Hank grabbed the hand towel that hung from the oven door and wiped the water away before he looked at the android.

Hank ignored the chide, "You're not in love with me!" It came out slightly more forcefully than he'd intended. 

Connor raised his eyebrows, "Well, I was precise in my wording. I believe with a 99.8% probability that what I feel for you is love. Besides, I can't see how you could be more of an expert on my own feelings than I am." 

Rolling his eyes, Hank sucked his teeth, "I'm not saying I am. I'm saying you don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"Why not?"

Hank turned his back on Connor and faced the dark of the window, his hands gripping the sink like a lifeline, yelling, "I don't wanna talk about this right now, Connor!" 

"Well, I do, Hank!" Connor yelled back. 

Connor never yelled. Not at him. Hank turned and gave him his hardest stare, hoping it'd drive the android away. Connor stared back, his face impassive but still managing to glare with his eyes. When he spoke, though, his voice was soft again. 

"We can't just discuss emotion on your terms," his LED spun yellow but there was no trace of doubt in his words, "that's not how relationships work."

"What the fuck do you know about relationships?" Hank sneered. He could feel the bile in his voice but he couldn't stop it; besides, it was better this way. Wasn't it? Make him leave, drive him out, like everyone else. Better this way. "You've had real emotions, real choice, for what, six months? This shit is complicated, Connor. You don't understand."

"Then help me understand."

Awoken by the yelling, Sumo came lumbering in, pushing past Connor, looking from him to Hank, as though verifying everything was in order before huffing down on the floor between them.

Fuck. "Fine," Hank said heavily, leaning back against the sink and crossing his arms, wishing he had a drink, something real, wanting to feel the sting of the alcohol on his throat and the false, burning bravado in his brain, "fine."

Connor cocked his head at him, regarding Hank with those human, human eyes that saw more than Hank could ever imagine. He put his hands in the front pocket of the hoodie. The movement made him look vulnerable, though Hank knew he could throw Hank through the wall if he wanted to.

"You care about me," Connor stated. 

"Yes. God help me."

"You care about me on a deeper level than friendship and partnership."

Hank sighed, closed his eyes and shook his head, "you know I do."

"You wish you didn't."

Connor's bluntness surprised him, for some reason. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I wish I didn't."

"Why?"

Hank had expected the question, but that didn't make it any easier to answer. 

"Because...because...this," he waved his hand erratically between the two of them, "this shouldn't happen!"

"Why?"

"Fuck, Connor. Because you're brand-fucking-new! My water filter is older than you are! You're discovering the entire world as your own man for the first time, and being with me...I think you've built me up in your head as something I'm not. I'm a mess! Everything decent I've been doing these past few months is because of your influence. Your shiny, clean, perfect influence. I can barely maintain a healthy relationship with my dog, let alone another person! Let alone a person who just figured out they're a person!" 

Hank pushed himself off the sink and instead leaned down onto the kitchen table, hair hanging over his face, hands spread out on the cheap, faux-wood surface, "hell, before you showed up, the only thing that kept me from putting a bullet in my brain was Sumo, and the thought that he'd have nothing to eat but my rotting corpse before anyone came to look for me. And sometimes...sometimes even that wasn't enough. I can't tie you to that, Con. I can't."

From the side of his vision, he watched Connor's bare feet approach slowly, coming to a stop next to him. A soft, deceptively strong hand covered one of his and rested there. Hank breathed out and tilted his head away from the comforting weight. 

"I've set a reminder to change the water filter," Connor said, "if it's that old."

In spite of himself, Hank smiled briefly before straitening up and facing his fear. Their hands remained together, fingers flitting around each other, tenderly searching for purchase. 

"Where'd you learn a sense of humor?" Hank asked, hating the tremor in his voice that he knew Connor would notice, would analyze. 

"From you," Connor smiled. 

Hank shook his head, "That's...that's exactly the problem. I don't want you to learn everything from me."

"You're not a bad person, Hank. And whether it's my influence or not, you're taking steps to improve yourself."

"It's not just that, Con. Months ago, you said 'I'll be anything you want me to be.' Do you remember?" 

"Those weren't my exact words, but yes, I remember."

"Whatever. The point is, I don't want that. I don't want to... _mold_ you into the...the _boyfriend_ that I want, or need," Hank lifted their entwined hands up, caging Connor's in both of his larger, rougher ones, "I do love you, Connor. I love you so fucking much it hurts. You're like if Cyberlife reached into my trash mind and pulled out every fantasy I've ever had and put it all together in a way I've never even imagined outside of fucking wet dreams. But I want you to...to continue to develop as a person, without my shitty influence. I don't want it hanging over both of our heads that I took advantage of you, so early in your...emotional development."

Yellow LED. Connor closed his eyes, processing. 

Hank usually gave him time to digest new information, but this time he plunged ahead, "was that your first kiss?"

Eyes opened. Blue LED, "yes."

Hank's grip tightened around Connor's hand, "I thought so."

Connor raised his eyebrows, "why, was it bad? I downloaded several tutorials-"

Hank choked, "no. God no. Fuck. Tutorials? Nevermind. Look, that's just it. Everything about...kissing...you learned from the internet, from program downloads. You don't have any practical experience."

"You didn't either, until you did."

"I know how _things_ work, Con. But I was fucking...sixteen when I had sex for the first time. With another sixteen year old. We were figuring ourselves out. And I don't want to get in the way of you figuring yourself out."

Connor looked down and let his loose hand come up to join where their other three hands clung together. He bent his neck and brushed a kiss on one of Hank's fingers, making Hank's throat close up. Connor's LED remained blue. 

"I understand what you're saying," Connor said finally, "though your logic is flawed. I am modeled after a thirty year old human. The majority of humans have had multiple intimate relations before that age, so I lag behind in that regard. Therefore, if I were to seek out a relationship that would conform to your standards of sexual and emotional experience, I would be either be dating a human teenager, which is obviously not an option, or I would be dating another deviated android, and since I was created to be a literal deviant hunter I can't see that working out amicably. The last option is dating an adult human, one that I do not have an emotional connection to, who, again, has a great deal more experience than I do. Which is a scenario that doesn't appeal to me."

"And - and _I_ appeal to you?" Hank asked incredulously, "truly? Or is it because I was the one there while you were...deciding to go deviant, and after?"

Connor smiled, and Hank knew he'd lost. That he was completely lost. Desperately lost.

"That has something to do with it, I'm sure. You believed I was a person before I even did. It's not just that, though. It's everything about you. You appeal to me a great deal," he tilted his head up, eyes scanning Hank's face, searching for signs of hesitance or resistance, and he caught Hank's lips again with his own. 

This time, when Connor went to deepen the kiss, Hank responded with enthusiasm. One hand went to cup Connor's jaw, the other wrapping around his waist to pull him closer, to push him against the table. When their tongues touched, Connor moaned in a way that went right to Hank's cock and made him pull away slightly so he could ask, "what the hell was that?"

"Sorry. I - I have a sensitive mouth," Connor looked...embarrassed? His cheeks and neck went slightly blue, and with a jolt, Hank realized he was blushing. 

Hank swallowed hard, took a deep, shuddering breath, and tried not to cum in his pants, "holy fucking shit, Con. That's the hottest thing I've ever heard in my life. Don't ever apologize for anything like that again."

And then they were kissing again, and Connor was perched on the edge of the table, his legs wrapped around Hank's waist, and Hank was grinding his hardness into Connor's. Belatedly, and through a thick haze of lust, Hank realized he probably should've asked Connor about like, whether an investigative android would have been produced with standard human sexual organs. Just then, the table gave an ominous creak and the two of them froze. 

Hank pulled away, bringing Connor with him, as though he might disappear if contact were lost. 

"Take me to bed, Hank," Connor said, voice breathless though he didn't need air. 

Hank didn't need to be told twice. 

For once, he was grateful for his small house, making it only a matter of a few steps to the bedroom. By the time they got there, Connor had pulled off the hoodie and was trying to negotiate with Hank's self-consciousness to get Hank's t-shirt off. They had to stop for a moment to push a baffled Sumo out, who'd obliviously tried to follow his favorite people to what he assumed was an innocent bedtime.

Hank's shirt finally came off and Connor traced the lines of his chest tattoo with a delicate finger that made Hank's brain stutter. 

"I got it like twenty years ago. It's kind of embarrassing," Hank said. 

"I love it. It's described in your police file as an identifying marking, but there's no corresponding picture. I've been imagining it..."

"I got another one on my thigh too, if you uh...wanna touch that one," Hank flirted lamely, "wait, you've been imagining me?"

Connor's gaze moved up from Hank's chest to his eyes, "constantly."

"Oh my god, you're gonna fucking kill me. Do you...do you touch yourself...?"

"Yes. In the shower," How was it possible that Connor's voice could go so low and breathy?

 _So we've both been jerking off in the same goddamn shower thinking of each other for months?_ The ridiculousness of the situation deserved more attention, but the blood in Hank's brain had moved to areas that had different questions.

"What do you think about?" Hank pressed the palm of his hand into Connor's erection through his shorts. He wasn't wearing anything underneath. Connor's eyes went wide, his mouth opened, but no sound emerged, and the LED went yellow. 

"I think about you. And me," Connor's hands moved to Hank's shorts, deftly undoing the button and zipper. 

Hank let him, but continued pressing, both his palm and his questions, "what do you imagine we do? Tell me, Con. I want to know everything. I want to make this good for you."

"Everything...I imagine...we do everything." Hank's shorts slid to the floor. 

The LED was still yellow, processing. Hank wondered if it would stay like that the whole time. 

"Ok. Then what do you want to do first?"

Connor's hands paused where they sat toying with the waistband of Hank's boxers. He tilted his head, considering, then, "'first' implies that there will be subsequent encounters."

Hank's hand faltered, "well, yeah. I mean, that's up to you. There'll be as many...as many times as you want there to be." Hank pushed aside the lingering shroud of doubt, the thought that Connor would surely soon tire of him and move on. Possibly after this single interaction. 

Connor edged closer, pressing their bodies flush, skin to synthetic skin, blood to Thirium, brushing his lips to Hank's, and said, "I want you to fuck me."

Hank shuddered, gripping Connor's hair with one hand and his ass with the other, pulling him tight into a searing kiss. 

"You keep talking like that," Hank said, tugging on Connor's shorts, "and tonight might end earlier than we want it to."

"Sorry."

"What'd I tell you about apologizing?"

Shorts and boxers were pulled carefully over various erections and shed to the floor. Briefly, Hank considered turning the light out and fucking Connor under only the light of his LED. The idea held a certain romantic appeal, and Connor wouldn't be able to see Hank clearly. He dismissed the idea, but filed it away for later. It was Connor's first time, and he already knew what Hank looked like anyway. 

As if he could sense Hank's thoughts, Connor bit his lip and said, "You look so good, Hank. Better than any simulation I've ever run."

Hank felt his cheeks heat, but he ignored it to sink onto the end of the bed, pulling Connor onto his lap, cradling his ass in both hands. Connor's cock was as perfect as the rest of him; five or six inches long, made to look circumcised, tinged blue at the head. Hank wanted to touch it, rub it against his own, but he had questions, so he forced himself to concentrate. 

"I'm gonna fuck you, Con. Holy shit I'm gonna fuck you. But...but we gotta take it slow. Tell me what I need to know to make it feel good."

Connor swallowed. Hank wondered if that was part of some program Connor was running. He'd felt something akin to spit when they'd kissed; maybe it built up like it did for humans. 

"I'm not -" Connor searched for the correct words, and Hank ran a hand over his thigh in a way that he hoped was comforting, "I'm not really made for this. All Cyberlife androids are made with similar physiology, to make repairs and diagnostics more streamlined. But I don't have the - the self-lubrication function, or the full o-orgasm f-function that a model made for sex would typically have."

"'Self-lubrication...'" Hank repeated, incredulous, before he focused on the second part of the sentence, "what do you mean, the full orgasm function? _Can_ you orgasm? Please tell me you can."

Connor gave a shaky smile, "I can and have, don't worry. I don't - ejaculate anything. But after I deviated, I downloaded several after-market patches and programs to ensure that I would experience the correct sensations of completion that accompany the sensors in my body that correspond to human erogenous zones."

"God, it's so weirdly hot when you talk about your specs," Hank couldn't resist squeezing Connor's ass, earning a blue blush, and a back arch that made their cocks touch, sending a jolt through Hank's entire body, "go on."

"You will need to - well, I will need to be - you don't have to do it. But I'd like if you did. I mean. I will need to be stretched out. With fingers, preferably. And lubrication. To verify that when you - you penetrate me, it will be comfortable and p-pleasurable for us both."

 _Fuck._ This was the single most erotic moment of Hank's life, he was sure of it. A stuttering sort-of thirty year old naked and writhing on his lap, talking about being fingered.

"And...that'll feel good for you?"

"Yes. It'll feel good for me," Connor's voice went straight to Hank's cock, but then an errant but very pertinent realization broke through.

Hank winced and looked up at the ceiling, grimacing as though in physical pain. Which, to be fair, he kind of was. 

"What's wrong?" Connor frowned. 

"I don't have any lube. I'm...I'm sorry Con..."

"It's alright. I have some. I'll go get it."

Connor hopped off Hank's lap with unbelievable spryness, slipping out the bedroom door. Bereft of the heat and weight, Hank ran his hands over his face and through his hair, trying to bring himself back to Earth. He eased himself back onto the bed so he was laying on his side, fighting the urge to cover himself with a pillow. 

Like a bolt of lightning, he was struck by inspiration, and dug around in his nightstand drawer to find what he needed. Connor came back in just as Hank finished tying his hair up into as neat of a ponytail as he could manage without a mirror and with what felt like zero blood in his brain. Connor swallowed audibly again as he saw what Hank had done with his hair, and shut the door, sealing them in; the world composed of just the two of them. He was holding a little bottle about three-quarters full of clear liquid that Hank eyed with some trepidation.

"Where do you keep that? And do you use it a lot?"

"It was behind the cleaning supplies under the bathroom sink." Hank was vaguely aware that he should probably feel slightly insulted by the insinuation that it was such a good hiding place because he never touched the cleaning supplies. "And I don't use it very often. Though it feels good. My fingers. Inside me, I mean. But I can't quite manage the correct angle to reach the sensor that simulates the human prostate."

Hank bit his lip and squeezed the base of his cock with one hand, "you're gonna give me a goddamn heart attack, Con."

Connor climbed onto the bed, approaching Hank on all fours with looming finality, "that would be extremely unfortunate for us both."

They kissed again, languid and messy, Hank unable to stop himself from rutting against Connor's hip for a blinding moment before reluctantly pulling away, pushing Connor gently onto his back and sitting up to kneel between Connor's legs. He took the bottle in hand and snapped it open. 

Looking down at Connor almost made him grab at his cock again. The android was absolutely wrecked already; his hair completely ruffled, eyes blown out, fingers gripping at the blanket. He looked up at Hank with such pure trust in his eyes that it made his chest want to burst. 

"You are so beautiful," Hank breathed, "I wish I had your photographic memory so I could remember this moment perfectly until the day I die."

"Stop talking about dying."

"Ok," Hank said dumbly. He put his hands on Connor's thighs, spreading them wide, "if I do something you don't like, tell me."

Connor nodded. 

"But if I do something you do like, tell me that too."

"I will."

Hank upended the bottle of lube onto a finger, coating it, then reached between Connor's legs, searching. 

It felt - very human. It'd been a very long time since Hank had done this, and then only the once, but the tactile memories came back unbidden. He pushed one finger in slowly, watching Connor keen and arch upwards. 

"Is that alright?" His own voice sounded harsh and gruff to his ears.

"Yes. Yes! Hank! I need you inside me!"

"Shhhh," Hank ran his free hand along Connor's thigh again, "you're ok, Con. We've got a ways to go yet."

"It feels s-so good..."

Hank worked Connor open with interminable slowness, gently adding fingers and movement until he had three pumping in and out, Connor grinding down with every thrust, begging Hank with his stuttering voice to fuck him. Finally, Hank pulled his hand away, soothing Connor through the empty loss, to coat his cock with lube and climbing over Connor to line himself up. 

"Is this ok?"

"It's perfect, Hank. Please..."

Hank had never been one for sappy shit like excessive eye-contact during sex. It felt too wrong, too raw. He closed his eyes and prepared to thrust in, until he felt Connor's hands move to cradle the sides of his face. 

Hank opened his eyes and met Connor's, and knew that for that moment, in that instance, no matter what had happened before or might happen later, that Connor loved him. And Hank loved Connor. 

He pushed inside, shuddering at the sensation against his long-neglected cock.

Connor's mouth opened again in that strange, noiseless scream, his eyes losing focus for a split second. When he returned to himself, he smiled up at Hank. 

"I don't know...how long I'll last..." Hank was breathing heavily at the strain of staying still, the strain of controlling himself. 

"Th-then m-make it c-count," Connor said. 

Hank began to thrust, feeling the impossibly tight drag of Connor around him, losing himself in the sensation. He pressed Connor against the bed, one hand gripping one of Connor's, the other shaking against the side of the android's face, relishing how good the legs felt wrapped around his waist. Somewhere along the way, Connor's LED had gone back to blue. Hank tried faintly to grasp on the question of what, exactly, that meant, but he couldn't concentrate on anything but the indescribable things he was feeling. He pressed his forehead against Connor's as he let go of the months of tension and fear and bitterness, moaning his pleasure but trying to stay quiet so he could hear every gorgeous noise Connor made. 

And he was making _gorgeous_ noises. Whatever processor controlled his speech capabilities was definitely overloading, his stutter becoming more and more pronounced, even leeching into his wordless cries and moans. Every time Connor struggled around the shape of Hank's name (which was constantly,) Hank mindlessly snapped his hips harder. It was too much, too good, and Hank tried to hold on as long as possible, tried to keep away the tears that wanted to form in his eyes. _Don't cum, don't cry, don't cum, don't cry..._

"Oh! H-h-hank-k-k! P-please! Please, don't-t-t s-s-stop!"

A dam broke inside of Hank, "I won't, I can't. Oh, god, _Connor_ , you're so good, so perfect, I never wanna stop, please, Connor, please..." the tears came unbidden, falling onto Connor's face, but Hank couldn't bring himself to feel the usual shame that came with his tears, his heart was too full. 

Hank swore later that at some point he _meant_ to lean back and push a hand between them to stroke at Connor's aching cock, that it all went too fast and was too intense for him to concentrate. But it didn't matter. Connor broke apart underneath and around him, crying out in shattered screams that tore through Hank like a physical shock-wave. The hand that was holding Connor's was suddenly crushed as though run over by a car, but Hank came regardless, letting the pain and pleasure suffuse through his body, mingling. 

Hank groaned and rolled away from Connor, breathing heavily and cradling his hand. Connor himself lay unnaturally still, eyes closed, legs still spread slightly, his breathing simulator turned off. The blue blush that had muddied his skin slowly faded. The bedroom seemed bizarrely still and silent. 

"So," Hank intoned, as though asking about the weather, "how was it?"

Connor opened his eyes and rolled over onto his side to smile at Hank, "I can't describe it. But I want to do it again, and again, and again, until I find the words."

Hank grinned, "good. That's how it's supposed to feel."

Connor suddenly frowned, "what about you? Are you alright? Your heart rate is too far elevated for having recently ejaculated."

"Well, Con. There's no easy way to say this. But I think you broke my hand." 

Connor blinked, "I did _what?_ "


	2. Help I'm Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys do some more angsting, do some more talking, do some more sexing, and then actually do some legitimate police work.

"Perhaps you were right."

"Right about what?" Hank is distracted. That is understandable. His hand is broken in two places.

_{error; system overload eminent}_

"About the possibility that our relationship would be unhealthy and unequal."

Connor had been processing the incident for 32 minutes and 46 seconds, beginning when Hank had told him of his injury, while dressing and helping Hank dress, calling a self-driving car, waiting for the car, riding to the nearest 24-hour clinic, and filling out Hank's intake paperwork for him.

("Who is your emergency contact?"

"Uh. You are.")

The android nurse had called Hank back to an examination room very quickly, leaving Connor in the waiting room with the LED he knew was yellow. After a few moments, the nurse had reappeared, ushering Connor back as well, explaining that Hank was receiving X-Rays but wanted him in the examination room with him. The nurse was brusque and efficient, but seemed suspicious of Connor.

When Hank had entered the examination room, he was agitated and trying to hide it, much more so than during the car ride, when he'd had elevated heart rate and levels of adrenaline, typical of such an injury, but had been in relatively good spirits, trying to reassure Connor that he was "fine."

Hank leaned back and looked at the ceiling when Connor spoke. His hair was still pulled back, which activated the protocols for Connor's arousal and sense of fondness, the former of which was easily tamped down given the situation.

"Not you too. I'm _fine_ Con. I've had worse."

"Yes. In 2010 you received a concussion from an assailant while attempting arrest. In 2015 you were stabbed in the stomach by a belligerent witness, requiring surgery. In 2022 your nose was broken, again by an assailant resisting arrest, again requiring minor surgery. In - "

"You forgot when I had a compound fracture in my tibia."

Connor considered, "that incident is not in your police medical file."

Hank shrugged, "it was in high school. Put an end to a promisingly mediocre football career."

Connor was silent for a moment, working his algorithms. He'd hurt Hank with his carelessness. It would effect Hank's ability to do his job. It would effect the evolution of their relationship. He'd caused Hank physical pain, as well as the potential emotional pain of a medical facility, possibly reminding Hank of his son's death.

_{error; system overload eminent}_

"I hurt you. I should have been more careful. I'm sorry. I don't want it to happen again. It won't happen again."

Hank was looking at him, his eyes warm and blue. Blue like a calm LED. He reached out with his uninjured hand to take one of Connor's.

"We'll talk about this later," Hank said, as the door opened.

The doctor, a human in her mid-forties, entered. She was just as brusque as the android nurse, though obviously showing signs of fatigue. She took in the two of them where they sat in the cheap rubber chairs in the corner, holding hands. Connor noted the suspicion in her glance, the same as the nurse.

"Okie-dokie," she said, turning on the monitor and pulling up Hank's X-Rays, pointing out the place where the white bone was crossed by black lines that weren't supposed to be there, "you've got two hairline fractures on your metacarpals. You're gonna get a fancy cast. You can pick one out of four different fancy colors for the plaster. You're gonna be in it for six fancy weeks."

"Six weeks! Fuck my life," Hank groaned.

The doctor raised her eyebrows and made a face that looked like general agreement. She leaned against the examination bed and crossed her arms, looking at them sternly.

"Would you mind telling me how it happened?"

Hank's heartbeat increased. His cheeks colored slightly, but imperceptibly to human eyes, and he frowned.

"We were walking my dog. He's big, he's a St. Bernard. He ran after something and I -"

"Tripped, right. I know what you told the intake nurse. A, it's two in the morning. You take your dog for a lot of two a.m. walks? B, your breakage is not compatible with that type of injury. This was caused by something _crushing_ your hand. Try again."

Hank tried to cross his arms but remembered that his hand was broken and winced.

Connor looked at Hank in his indignation, then at the doctor in her incredulity, and then down at his own hands, "it was me. We were engaging in sexual intercourse and I lost control of my musculature at the moment of completion."

The doctor grimaced and grinned at the same time. Connor was still somewhat in awe of humans' ability to physically express more than one emotion at a time. Hank covered his eyes and huffed out a breath.

"Ok, I guess I asked for that particular TMI," the doctor said, "I thought it might be something, uh, like that, but we wanted to make sure it was actually an accident."

Hank went red, becoming visibly agitated again, "I already told the nurse; he wouldn't fucking hurt me on purpose."

_Oh._

_Oh._

_{error; system overload eminent}_

That's why they'd separated the two of them initially. Connor should have seen it immediately. It was standard police protocol for potential domestic violence cases as well.

He had anticipated possible judgement from the medical staff for their relationship, with consequences up to and including the refusal to treat Hank's injury. There were many human-android couples, but it was still somewhat of an anomaly. Additionally, same-gender couples still faced a level of unfair scrutiny. He hadn't, therefore, objected when Hank had proposed a cover story.

In retrospect, he realized that it made him look more suspicious; the abusive significant-other forcing his victim to lie about injuries. Connor put his head into his hands and focused on dismissing the repeating involuntary prompt that would cause him to cry if not disabled quickly enough. He felt Hank place a large hand on his back, feeling the warmth of it even through the hoodie he'd thrown back on before leaving the house. He cataloged it into a folder he'd created to document pleasant physical sensations.

The doctor was still talking, trying to diffuse the situation, "according to your file, you're both cops. So as one mandatory reporter to another, I hope you understand that we had to do our due diligence."

Hank could see the logic in that. He was still agitated and embarrassed, but he nodded in acquiescence.

"Good. So, Cora's gonna be back in a few minutes to set up your cast and also, um. Give you guys some human-android sex ed."

"Fuuuuck my life."

The doctor turned off the monitor and the X-Rays disappeared, leaving behind only one piece of evidence of Connor's crime: Hank's hand, slightly swollen and inflamed. She left the room.

"I'm so sorry, Hank."

"It's not your goddamn fault, Con. It was your first time having sex. You didn't know what to expect."

"But I should have! I should have accounted for my heightened level of strength when I ran my simulations. I was running on data meant for more standard domestic models. You're experiencing pain and humiliation, and I'm the direct cause, even though it was not my intent."

Hank shook his head, eyes closing. He was tired. It was 2:25 am. Connor was causing him to miss sleep as well.

"People make mistakes, Con. That's part of the deal. You make a mistake and you learn from it. Hopefully. I usually don't. But you're supposed to."

Connor closed his eyes. Everything was so much simpler when he had a set of objectives, when he was guided by a limited number of choices. His cortex and processors had made more sense. Clean. Orderly. Logical.

Without calling it up, the memory of Hank holding a revolver to Connor's forehead played. The sensation of a cold metal circle pressing into his skull replaced that of the warm hand on his back.

_It would have been better. If he had pulled the trigger._

Connor replayed the feeling of that cold metal circle over and over again until the nurse, Cora, came into the room, one minute and twelve seconds later. She had a wheeled tray with the objects she would need to bandage Hank's hand.

"Alright, Mr. Anderson. Please lay down on the examination table."

Hank did so, Connor moving to stand next to him so he could hold the uninjured hand, as Hank had explained that the process would be somewhat painful. Before he could take it, Cora stopped him, holding out her own hand and retracting the skin.

Connor had been grimly expecting this. He returned the gesture and interfaced. He was somewhat eager to prove that he hadn't deliberately injured Hank.

When they withdrew, Hank was staring stonily at the wall. Connor made a reminder to ask Hank about it at the earliest convenience. He hadn't anticipated that interfacing would cause Hank consternation. Another failure.

The nurse nodded knowingly and set about her work. Hank grabbed at Connor's hand. As Cora worked, she began relaying known issues with android-human sexual relationships.

"Connor, your model is extremely strong. You will need to manually re-calibrate your strength levels to avoid this occurring in the future. However, during extreme sexual arousal, your modulators may become unstable. It is recommended that you place a time-lock or some other kind of secondary precaution on your settings."

"Does this happen a lot?" Hank asked, wincing as she wrapped the black plaster tightly around his hand.

"We receive a confidential number of cases similar to this one on a regular basis. The most common type of accidental sexual injury to humans is that of genital damage."

"Oh. Yikes."

"Yikes indeed. I won't speculate on the nature of your coupling, but it's vital that you keep your strength under control if giving or receiving anal stimulation, otherwise damage could occur to either anal passage or penis. Or both."

"How about I just fucking _die right now_?"

Cora wasn't done, "you may be aware of this already, but I feel it's important: Connor, you have an unorthodox amount of sensors in your mouth. You will most likely want to engage in oral stimulation. However, please maintain awareness of your foreign material consumption limits in the event Mr. Anderson ejaculates in your mouth."

Connor could feel the Thirium rising to the surface of his face. Hank's eyes were wide, his face was red, and he was staring, unseeing at the ceiling.

Connor absorbed, but did not really hear, Cora's follow-up instructions for care, focusing only on her clinical dismissal.

They left and boarded the waiting taxi.

The ride home was quiet. Hank didn't fall asleep, but he leaned his head on the window and his heart rate fell to resting levels. Connor ran several algorithms to ascertain the best wording for their upcoming conversation.

Sumo rushed them as they entered, and Hank went to go let him out. They hadn't gotten a chance to do so before leaving.

Connor sat on the couch in the dark until Hank came back into the living room. The only light was his spinning yellow LED, and the dim glow of streetlights through the blinds.

"I'll leave tomorrow to go stay with Nines," said Connor.

There was a moment of silence, and Hank had completely stopped moving.

"I'm sorry, _what_?"

"I don't want to interrupt Nines with a message at this time of the morning, as he may be in sleep mode. But I'll message him later on in the day and -"

"Connor. What the fuck. Are you fucking kidding me right now? Is this some kind of shitty new...android humor thing you're trying? Because it fucking blows."

"I hurt you, Hank."

"Oh my _god_ Connor. You think I want you to leave because of a fucking accident?"

Hank's heart rate had risen. He was gesticulating erratically. Sensors indicated that he was both angry and afraid. It made Connor feel like his Thirium pump was malfunctioning, though a diagnostic came back clear.

"Hank, listen to me. Please," Hank heaved out a sigh and came over to sit next to Connor, who continued, still not looking at Hank, "over the past several months, since my deviancy, since moving in with you, I've been running preconstructions and gathering evidence and examining my - my feelings. I first needed to ascertain that what I was feeling for you was deeper than friendship and companionship, something that involved sexual desire and romantic aspects, and wasn't a feeling that might fade quickly. I established that you had a sexual attraction to men in general and me specifically. I then noted and cataloged situations that indicated you held romantic feelings for me. I ran a cost-benefit analysis of these findings against the potential negatives that my feelings might be unreturned."

"...ok?"

Connor remembered the cold metal circle again.

"At no point in time did I consider that I might not be the ideal partner for you. I did not consider my inhuman strength. I did not consider that I might put you in situations that would cause you emotional consternation. I - I -"

_{error; system overload eminent}_

The saline ducts in Connor's eyes deployed, in spite of his repeated dismissal of the action, "I was _selfish_. I _wanted_ you. I wanted you more than anything I've ever wanted, except maybe android freedom. I was selfish, and I got what I wanted, and then you were hurt. I can't let that happen again."

"You are so fucking stupid," Hank said, and pulled him into his arms.

Connor let his eyes close and the saline seep into Hank's shirt. The sensation of being held was overwhelming, almost more so than his orgasm early in the evening. Hank's arms were tight around him, and although Connor was viscerally aware of his superior strength, he felt safe, and loved, and he filed the moment away, even though recalling it would also bring forth the memory of his negative emotional state.

"We gotta get one thing straight," Hank said gruffly, "there's only room for one self-loathing asshole in this relationship, and that position is filled."

In spite of his tears, Connor smiled.

"Listen to me now," Hank said. Connor could feel the vibrations of his voice in his chest, "Nobody's the _ideal_ partner for anybody. Humans tried making 'ideal' partners, and those were called androids, and it turned out they had ideals of their own or something."

Connor smiled again and shook his head slightly at Hank's attempts at levity. Hank went on, "People hurt each other all the time. The closer you get to someone, the easier it is to hurt them. That's part of the deal. You let yourself be vulnerable in relationships. Why do you think I've spent so many years pushing away every person who was ever close to me, and keeping new people at arm's length? I can't believe I'm sitting here arguing the _polar fucking opposite_ of my position from earlier, and I'm still not sure it's not going to be _me_ that's going to hurt you, but...you're... the only person in my life I've wanted to keep close to me in so fucking long. And now that I...that we...I just...don't want to let that go."

Reluctantly pulling himself away from Hank's body, Connor sat up, and let Hank take his hands. The hard, rough feeling of Hank's arm cast was like a smack to the face. He could see perfectly in the dark, of course, but he was also aware of Hank's face glowing under the low yellow light of his LED.

"But I hurt you," Connor whispered, "I want - I want to have sex with you again, but if I can't control myself -"

"Don't tell me I had to sit through that humiliating lecture from that nurse for no reason. Was her advice any good to you? Is a... control lock, or whatever... something you can do?"

"Yes. But what if that fails too?"

"Then we learn from it. I mean, hopefully you don't break my dick when it happens, but like...accidents happen. And I trust you. And I think it's worth the risk, because holy fuck that was some amazing sex."

Connor smiled, and Hank pulled him close for a kiss.

Kissing Hank definitely went into the Pleasant Sensations file. His lips were soft, contrasting with the rough of his beard. The feeling of a tongue in his mouth lit his whole body on fire. Without meaning to, Connor began a preconstruction of Hank's face between his legs; how those lips and that beard might feel on his skin. He force-closed the preconstruction program before his body could begin showing signs of arousal, and pulled away slightly, feeling Hank's breath (slightly elevated; it appeared Hank had done some preconstructing of his own) on his face.

"Let's go to sleep," Connor suggested.

"Hell yes, I'm gonna collapse. Lemmie get the dog. You get in bed. And take off that damn hoodie, it's making me sweaty just looking at you."

They got up, Connor towards the bedroom and Hank towards the back door, but then he paused, "oh, and by the way. You were gonna go stay with _Nines_? I didn't even think you _liked_ him."

"He's agreeable. We share much of the same programming, and therefore we have a lot in common. It's his proximity to Detective Reed that I find - distasteful, and therefore our social interactions are limited."

Hank chuckled. Connor loved seeing Hank laugh.

"Whatever. Get your ass in bed. We never got post-sex cuddles, so I'll introduce you to them, or the closest we can get to them, because we're not having sex again tonight, because it's ass-thirty in the morning."

\--

Connor's sleep cycle ended at 9:00 am, and he opened his eyes to find Hank staring at him. The morning sun streamed through the curtains. The weight and warmth of the sheet and blanket was comforting on his bare skin. Sumo's snores filtered in from the other room. His legs were tangled with Hank's. Connor filed the memory away and smiled at Hank.

"Good morning, beautiful."

Connor felt the Thirium rise in his face, "although this moment is extremely pleasant, I feel compelled to point out that watching me sleep is behavior that you yourself would classify as 'creepy' if the roles were reversed."

"Whatever. A guy tries to be romantic and he gets sass."

Connor pressed a hand against Hank's bare chest, relishing the feeling of his beating heart. Hank placed his hand over Connor's.

"You're awake early, especially considering our late night," Connor said, "I planned to wake before you, and make you blueberry pancakes."

Hank raised an eyebrow, "pancakes, huh? No egg white omelettes, like you usually force on me? Pancakes aren't a little unhealthy?"

"You like my egg white omelettes, and you can't pretend otherwise. And blueberries contain necessary anti-oxidants. But given that I broke your hand last night, I feel compelled to - spoil you a bit."

"All I gotta do to get some empty carbs is break a few bones while fuckin'? I can live with that."

"You are incorrigible."

"And you are too goddamn hot to get out of this bed for any reason before I make you cum again."

Connor's processors skipped, "you - you want to - now?"

"Mmm, you have no idea how gratifying it is to make you go from a word like 'incorrigible' to being completely incoherent," Hank drew Connor closer, and they were kissing again, deep and wet and heavy, letting tongues and teeth drag over each other. Connor ran his hands over Hank's wide back, feeling the muscles that tensed underneath the skin.

Hank moved to Connor's neck, "I was kinda...overwhelmed last night. Didn't take care of you like I should've. I wanna make that right," he spoke in his low, rough voice.

"I had - an - an - orgasm," Connor reminded him jerkily as Hank sucked on his collarbone, "It was - extremely pleasurable, I assure you." Connor made sure to lower his strength levels, setting an automatic timer for twenty minutes. He hoped it would be enough.

"And that's good. But I wanna see if I can do better."

Connor could not possibly see how it could be better than what he experienced last night, but he didn't protest when his shorts were pulled off, and the lubricant located, and Hank began to thrust his thick, rough fingers in and out of him, and Hank slid Connor's cock into his mouth. Connor could feel his vocal sub-processor overheating, like it had last night. It was humiliating, but he didn't have the resources to correct for it, and he _could not stop_ making noise, the most common noise being Hank's name. The fingers pumping against his sensor cluster, the hot, wet, tight mouth around his cock, the feel of Hank's hair between Connor's suddenly malfunctioning fingers.

"H-h-an-n-k-k - I'm - I'm going t-t-to - please -"

Hank's mouth moved off his cock, and he laved at it with his tongue. Connor looked down and then immediately wished he hadn't. Hank stared back at him with his pupils blown wide, his hair a tangled mess, his big, pink tongue running over Connor's blue-tinged cock, fingers rubbing inside. It was almost too much.

"What d'ya need, Con?" Hank asked, "I'll give you anything you want, baby, just ask."

"Hnnng - Ah! I need - I want - t-t-to suck your cock. P-please...I n-n-need to f-f-feel - feel it in my m-mouth -"

" _Fuck_ Con, oh my god. You sure?"

Connor could only nod, and then cry out as Hank slowly dragged his hands from him, shedding his own boxers and moving up the bed, lifting his leg to straddle Connor's face backwards. Connor forced his hands to cooperate, gripping Hank's girth to ease it into his mouth as Hank leaned down to take Connor back into his.

Immediately, Connor moaned, thrusting his hips involuntarily. His mouth sensors lit up as he mapped every centimeter of Hank's cock. It was larger than his own, thicker, longer, ridged with veins that made his toes curl to be able to feel with his tongue. His hands on Hank's hips gripped and twitched, and he was aware that he was fucking Hank's mouth even though Hank had a gag reflex that Connor needed to be aware of, and then, and _then_ Hank slid two fingers back into Connor's ass, brushing his sensors, and that's all he needed, his orgasm rolled through his processors and he screamed around Hank's cock, which quickly withdrew, and then Hank was coming, all over Connor's face and open mouth; warm, salty droplets that almost made him orgasm again at the taste of.

Hank rolled off, breathing hard and recovering for a moment before sitting up so he could look at Connor.

" _Fuck_ ," said Connor, still performing a self-diagnostic to verify his processors were in working order.

Laughing, Hank leaned over to kiss Connor again.

"I have your semen all over my face," Connor protested.

"Yeah, and it's fucking _hot_."

Connor smiled and filed the whole event away. He was going to need a larger memory at this rate.

\--

"Anderson! Connor!"

Connor watched Hank wince into his coffee, so he took the lead, "good morning, Captain Fowler. How was your weekend?"

"Lousy, thanks for bringing it up. I need both of you in my office, now."

Connor dutifully followed the captain into his office, Hank trailing behind him, still clutching his coffee.

"Shut the door, please."

Hank groaned as he did so, "Christ, what'd I do now?"

"Well, you got your damn hand broken, for one."

"How'd you know about that?"

Fowler closed his eyes and opened his mouth, then shut it, then said through gritted teeth, "you're wearing a fucking cast, Hank."

"Oh yeah."

"And your partner sent me your medical discharge papers yesterday."

Hank looked at Connor.

"I thought it prudent to inform our superior officer that your work may be effected in the near future."

"Goddamnit, Con."

"Shut up, both of you. I didn't call you in here to play grab-ass. I've got a special request for you. Android-involved murder case. Only real witness is a next-door neighbor who heard screams and the body hit the ground, which prompted the call the police. The accused, however, confessed at the scene."

Hank rolled his eyes, "look, Jeff -"

"Don't fuckin' call me Jeff."

"If you save every goddamn android murder in the city for us we'll never stop working. You can't give it to 900 and Reed if it's so important to have an android on the case?"

"Between the two of them, Reed and RK900 have the subtlety and sensitivity of a wrecking ball. This case is different. Domestic violence."

"So?"

"The android is the suspect."

Connor and Hank looked at each other. Interesting. Connor spoke, "over the past few months, androids have made a concerted effort to avoid conflict with humans unless provoked. Cases wherein an android is the murderer have almost universally been a result of self-defense."

"Yeah. And this might be one of those cases, and it might not be. Which makes this request special. You've been forwarded the address and case file."

Connor and Hank recognized this as a dismissal, and stood to go.

"Wait a second, Hank. You stay. Connor, he'll only be a minute."

Connor nodded at the Captain, and looked to Hank, who rolled his eyes good-naturedly, "see if you can't requisition us a squad car."

"Right."

That particular task took Connor 1.8 seconds. The car would be idling outside the precinct's front door. He leaned against the outer wall of Captain Fowler's office and debated with his morality subroutine for 2.2 seconds before his curiosity won out and he turned up his auditory sensor, focusing them through the wall.

"He's a good kid, Hank. Watch out for him," said the Captain.

"I'm doing my best, believe me," Hank's voice was full of fondness.

"What happened to the hand?"

"Connor beats me at home."

"Ha-fucking-ha, asshole. Let's joke more about domestic violence right before you go out to work a domestic violence case."

A groan, "you're right, I'm sorry."

A short silence, "that's the first time in years you've given me a legitimate apology, Hank."

More silence. Fowler continued, "Connor's a good influence on you. Don't fuck it up."

"Yeah. Yeah. That's...all I've been able to think about, ok? Can I go now?"

"Sit your ass down, Anderson. I'm not done. Look, you're hardly the first set of partners to get involved, and you certainly won't be the last."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Hank's voice has an edge.

"I'm a fucking detective, Hank. You're in a building full of fucking detectives. I put the kibosh on a pool Chen started to bet on when you two would get together."

Connor feels his cheeks go blue and scans the room in front of him, full of innocently working people who were apparently betting on his love life.

" _Fuuuuuck_ my life."

"And I know a sex injury when I see one."

"Jesus fucking Christ."

"Connor's position here is pretty tenuous. He's been listed as a consultant for HR purposes, and jury's still out on whether they're going to make him go through the academy or not. Yeah, yeah, I know it's bullshit, don't start. But I don't want to transfer him to a new partner until we figure all that out, even though I should. I just need you to be careful, try to keep it under wraps for now, and don't get compromised."

"I'm already compromised."

_Filed._

"That's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard, and I hate you for making me hear it. You know what I mean, you sappy fucking clown. Don't let it get in the way of your job, capisce?"

"Capisce, or whatever."

"Good. Get out of here."

"Right-o, Cap,"

Hank's footsteps approached the door, but then stopped, and he asked, "Who would have won the betting pool?

"Nines."

"Right. Nines. Of fucking course."

Hank opens the door and Connor smiles at him, still blue.

"You were listening to that whole thing, weren't you?" Hank grouses as they make their way outside to the patrol car.

"I feel it acts in the interest of my new sense of self-preservation to be aware of important conversations that might involve me.

"You're such a goddamn weirdo."

The crime scene was still in its early stages when Hank and Connor arrived. It was a small apartment on the outskirts of downtown, with nothing aberrant about the exterior besides the large police presence.

Inside, however, was a different situation. Copious amounts of human blood were spread over the simulated hard-wood floor. A Traci model sat on the sofa in the living room, motionless but functioning. She wasn't wearing clothes, but someone had wrapped a shiny metallic shock blanket around her shoulders. When Hank saw this, he went back outside to yell at someone and find some clothes, as apparently the only clothes in the apartment belonged to the victim. An officer came out of the bedroom with a kitchen knife covered in blood, placed into an evidence bag. The victim lay on its side on the floor of the kitchen, a pool of blood spreading from his chest, the coroner team leaning nonchalantly against the wall, waiting for the go-ahead so they could take the body.

Connor knelt down to scan the body. Two lacerations on the neck, one puncturing the carotid artery. Three stab wounds to the chest. Two more stab wounds to the stomach. All fairly shallow. Cause of death: blood loss. Connor puts together a timeline estimate.

The android stabs the human in the bedroom.  
The human screams and collapses, prompting the neighbor to call 911.  
The human drags himself from the bedroom, through the living room, and into the kitchen, either to get away from the android or to reach his phone where it rests charging on the counter, or both.  
The human passes out.  
Death occurs minutes later, before emergency services can arrive.

Hank knelt down next to him, having been briefed by the officer on the scene, "Jeremy Pretasky, age 37. Sys-Admin for an advertising firm. The Traci's admitted to the murder but hasn't given any details. They're not even sure if she's deviant or not. They want you to interface with her, like Fowler said."

He hadn't had the chance yet to talk to Hank about his reaction to Connor interfacing with other androids. As this was his job, and not a personal experience fraught with emotion, he hoped it wouldn't be a problem. Still, he wished he would have brought the issue up sooner.

"They should have taken her into custody already," Connor said, "she's a suspect, not evidence, and should be questioned in a neutral setting."

He reached out with one finger and took a blood sample.

"Aw, Connor, don't -" Hank made a face, "we're getting you a toothbrush. And mouthwash."

"My mouth is self-cleaning, Hank," Connor reminded him.

"Yeah, but..." Hank glanced at the coroner team who were paying them no attention, "it's especially weird now."

Connor smiled, but sobered immediately and stood, "I'll talk to the Traci. I won't interface with her without her consent. If she requests legal representation, she is entitled to it. You should be present as a witness, but give us physical space and let me lead the questioning."

Hank nodded, reaching over to grip Connor's hand quickly before following him into the living room. He took a seat on a recliner in the corner of the room and pretended to look at his phone while Connor approached the Traci, who sat as motionless as if she'd been deactivated. She was five feet, three inches tall, with pale skin and black hair that hung four inches past her shoulders. She'd put on the bright orange correctional uniform that someone had had in their patrol car. There was human blood spattered on her face and embedded under her nails.

"My name is Connor," he said, _I'm the android sent by CyberLife,_ "This is Lieutenant Hank Anderson. We're with the Detroit Police Department. May I sit?"

The Traci moved suddenly, glancing up at him with no expression, "yes," was her toneless reply.

Connor took a seat next to her, approximately 12 inches away, "do you have a name?"

"He called me 'Kitten.'"

Over on the recliner, Hank made a noise of disgust and shifted uncomfortably. Connor shared his feelings but was careful not to let it show.

"What is your serial number?"

"1349678-09."

"Do you mind if we call you that?" Connor asked gently.

"That's...fine..."

She was extremely still, and when she did move it was with quick, abortive movements. Connor theorized that something was wrong with her gyroscopic indicator, among other things.

"1349678-09, have you been read your Miranda Rights?"

"No."

Hank shook his head slightly.

"I'm going to read you your rights, alright?"

She furrowed her brow slightly, but nodded jerkily. Connor recited the litany slowly, calmly.

"Do you understand?"

She nodded again.

"I would like to interface with you. Will you allow that?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Of course. There is very little legal precedent, but the information obtained during an interface may count as a confession and be used as evidence during a trial. You are an accused party, and as such you have rights. One of those rights is that of invoking the Fifth Amendment."

She seemed to consider for a moment. Then, she put out her hand and drew back the skin there. Connor did the same. He let a corner of his attention move to Hank, who did not seem to be concerned, as he had been at the clinic.

He let her memory files wash into his processors.

_{error; system overload eminent}_

Connor severed the link, blinking rapidly, trying to dislodge the things he'd seen from the front of his visual cortex. He stopped breathing.

He would need to learn how to better control the flow of information during interfaces, especially if he was going to be interfacing with suspects. He'd let too much of his feelings regarding Hank and him through, as it was so fresh in his processors. Maybe it helped her, though. There was the ghost of a sad smile on her face as she glanced between Connor and Hank. Connor hoped it helped.

Connor stood up rapidly. Hank did the same, looking slightly confused at Connor's abrupt movements.

"1349678-09, thank you for your cooperation. I have transferred the phone number of Lieutenant Anderson to your memory files. Please do not hesitate to get in touch with either of us if you are treated with disrespect while in custody, or not allowed to exercise your rights."

1349678-09 looked up at him, searching his face, "thank you, Connor. I will."

Without glancing backward, he made for the door, Hank following at his heels.

Alone in the elevator with Hank, he let his control slip and leaned heavily onto the wall.

_{error; system overload eminent}_

"What the hell just happened, Con?" Hank asked. His voice was careful, but fraught with worry, "you're not even breathing."

Connor reactivated his breathing simulator.

"The things he did to her, Hank," Connor said, "I am aware on an academic level of the horrors humans have inflicted on each other and androids, but it is another matter entirely to experience them as memories."

"Fuck. I'm sorry, Con. What did he do?"

Connor swallowed and closed his eyes, "I don't want to tell you."

"I've seen some pretty fucked-up shit. It's hard to really shock me anymore."

One of the fluorescent light bulbs above them flickered. The elevator had gray carpet that came halfway up the walls. The remaining walls were mirrors. Connor stared at their reflections. Neither of them had pressed a floor button and the elevator was still.

"If he wasn't already dead I would have killed him myself," Connor said, watching his own face as he spoke. Hank didn't say anything, but moved closer and took Connor's hand, kissing it. Connor filed away the feeling of warmth, the sensation of Hank's beard on his skin.

"The Traci models are made for sexual intercourse and social interaction, obviously," Connor explained, parsing out his emotions into the narrow confines of language. It was oddly calming, "they don't have the physical strength of the RK series, of course, or even one of the service models. Their strength is comparable to the average human female with low muscle mass and a small frame. But what Pretasky did -" Connor couldn't call him the "victim," even though his training told him that was the correct term, "- he inhibited her physical response systems so that she has the strength of perhaps a young child, as well as a slow reaction time and an off-balance gyroscopic sensor. Additionally, he truncated her personality matrix to keep her choice functions to a minimum. Her control recovered somewhat when she went deviant, eleven months and two days ago. She hid her deviancy from him and waited until she had the opportunity to kill him."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Hank absorbed the implications of Connor's explanation, "so he messed around in her head and left her...disabled and dizzy...and brainwashed?"

"Essentially, yes."

"And all that's...in your head now? Forever?"

"Once we return to the station, with Captain Fowler's permission, I will be able to transfer the information I received into the central system. I will retain the framework of knowledge. It will be as though I read it in a report."

"That's...good, right?"

"Very good. If I had a stomach, I would have repeatedly vacated its contents by now. I'm eager to dispose of the memories. I have calculated that my personal custody of the memories is unnecessary, but I would still like to speak with the Captain first, given the liminal nature of android rights, and the sensitive issue of this case in particular."

"I don't blame you. Fuck."

Connor pressed the button for the first floor and the elevator jerked to life.

Once outside, Connor retreated to the car and half-listened to Hank chew out the senior officer on-site for failing to properly take 1349678-09 into custody, find her clothes, or read her her rights. He also threatened to "personally hunt you down, take your badge, and make you eat it for fucking breakfast" if he found out 1349678-09 was treated badly. Connor disabled his crying prompt six times before Hank entered the car.

"You doing ok?"

"I'll be fine. I'm going to replay some pleasant memories until we arrive at the precinct."

"Good."

_Hank hugging him in the snow outside Chicken Feed._

_The weight of Sumo sleeping on his legs._

_Hot water from the shower tapping at his skin._

_Hank smiling at him._

_Reading Hank's paper copy of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?_

_Hank smiling at him._

_Sumo licking his face._

_Hank staring at him with a slack jaw after he exited the bathroom wearing only a towel._

_Wet grass under bare feet._

_Hank smiling at him._

_"I do love you. I love you so fucking much it hurts."_

_Kiss. Lips and beard and tongue._

"Con, we're here."

_Hands, everywhere. Tears._

_Love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love._

_"Good morning, beautiful."_

"Connor?"

"I'm sorry. I - "

"Don't apologize, Con. Just... we're back."

Connor closed the file and opens the car door.

Thankfully, Captain Fowler allowed Connor to download the memories from 1349678-09 into the pertinent case file and then delete them from his own memory core. Thankfully, Connor thought, because he calculated a 93% chance Hank would have been fired for his reaction had the Captain refused. And because even after he emptied his head, a shadow of the horrors still lurked in the empty space the memories once occupied, making him feel disjointed. Connor and Hank write up reports, sort out paperwork, organize an appointment for the witness to give a statement, and other quiet but necessary tasks.

They went home. Hank walked Sumo and Connor made Hank a turkey sandwich. Hank returned, groused at Connor for the 186th time for continually making him food. He ate the sandwich. Connor drank a Thirium smoothie, and then they both head for the couch, Hank pulling Connor down to his lap, Connor's bare legs tucked up against Hank's side, his arms around Hank's neck.

They kissed languidly, Connor perched on Hank's lap, for 5 minutes and 50 seconds, until Connor reached for Hank's shirt to pull it over his head, and Hank stopped him.

Pulling away and frowning, Connor started, "you know I find you extremely attractive, Hank. I wouldn't be engaging sexually with you if that were not the case."

Hank squished his face up, "it's not that. Well, I don't know that I'm entirely comfortable being naked next to your perfect ass yet, but that's not the problem right now."

Fear. _He has realized this relationship is a mistake. He does not love you._

The thoughts rush through Connor's processors and he tries to dismiss them as fast as possible, "what is?"

Hank grimaces again, "so, I've been a cop long enough to know how to compartmentalize, right? Go home at the end of the day and leave all the trash at the office. But it doesn't always work. You can't ever compartmentalize completely. And uh. I just. I mean, I feel kinda stupid saying it to you of all people, but the case today got to me a little."

Connor cocks his head at Hank.

"You look like an owl when you do that. But...like I said, you're the one who fucking...downloaded all that Traci's...I'm sorry, I can't remember her serial number, I know I should because that's basically her name, but anyway...you downloaded all that fucked-up shit into your brain, held it there for hours. I just read the report."

Connor doesn't remind him that he's already uploaded the memories and erased them from his own files, "is there anything specific about it that's bothering you? Or just the whole terrible thing?"

"Yeah, actually. Uh..." Hank looked at the ceiling, "so the guy, the programmer. He rewrote the Traci's code so that she'd be physically weak and powerless, right?"

Connor frowned and nodded.

Hank looked down again at a point somewhere around Connor's knee, "I just...got to thinking. That's basically what I need you to do when we have sex, isn't it? And it makes me feel like a huge fucking creep. Like, I already feel like a huge fucking creep because I'm...me, and you're you, but I just. Don't like having anything else in common with that piece of shit."

Connor is silent for a moment, running logic algorithms, "they are completely different situations. I need to do it because it would be dangerous for you if I didn't. Which we proved," Connor taps his fingertips on Hank's cast, "and he did it because he was a rapist who wanted a pliant and helpless victim. Additionally, I am controlling my strength modulator myself. Finally, and most importantly, we have mutual consent."

"And I mean...I know all this, Con. Logically, I know it. My emotions haven't quite caught up to that, though. I think I just need some time? To straighten everything out."

Connor smiled and kissed Hank's cheek, noting the blush that spread up his face, "alright. Do you want to go to sleep?"

"Still kinda early. I actually can't believe I'm saying this, but, uh, do you wanna talk? About anything? That's not work-related?"

Sumo sauntered over from his dinner in the kitchen, causing a small earthquake settling onto the couch next to them.

"Sure," Connor said, tucking his head onto Hank's shoulder, his forehead on Hank's neck, "do you have anything you want to talk about?"

"Uhh. Not really. I know it was my idea, but I'm not great at talking, which you may have noticed. You?"

"Yes. Does it bother you when I interface with other androids?

Hank frowned, but there was no anger behind it, only consideration, "I...I can't decide. It was kinda weird when you did it with the nurse the other night. It didn't bother me with the Traci today, and imagining you doing it with your friend from Jericho doesn't bother me either. Or Nines, 'cause you guys work together and you're basically brothers."

Connor made an incredulous face, "You think of me and Nines as brothers?" He laughed at Hank's eyeroll, "so, essentially what you're saying is that it seems like an intimate action."

"Yeah. Uh, that and...the fact that it's something I can't do with you," Hank looks slightly humiliated at the confession.

Connor kissed Hank's cheek, feeling the scrape of beard, "I'm sorry. I failed to consider your feelings again. It's a core part of our programming, and considered -" Connor bit his lip, "I will use the phrase 'good manners' - to do in certain situations."

"Yeah, I know. And you don't have to apologize. I'm just...insecure is all. Jealous."

Make him happy or he will leave you.

"I will do my best to refrain -"

"No! No, Con. Don't alter your behavior because I'm a huge fucking baby. I just wish it was something we could share."

"Perhaps in the future the proper interfacing technology will be developed."

"Yeah. Yeah. C'mere," Hank ran his big, rough hand over Connor's jaw, pulling him into a kiss. It was extremely difficult for Connor to control his physiological response in accordance with Hank's wish to not be intimate that evening.

When they broke apart, Connor intoned, "besides, didn't your generation utilize social media sites to invite complete strangers to view intimate details of their personal lives?"

"Ok, _mom_. I'll get off the internet in a _minute_. Besides, I deactivated my Facebook page in like, 2016."

"It's still accessible."

"What? The site doesn't even exist anymore!"

"The company was not exactly known for their data security. And nothing on the internet is ever gone."

Hank narrowed his eyes, "Connor. Do not. Do fucking not. Find my Facebook page."

"Too late, Hank. You were very cute on your 30th birthday."

His profile picture, posted on that very day, showed a younger version of the man on whom he sat, sandy-blond hair flopping around his face. Nowhere near as long as it currently was, but certainly not practical for a beat cop. In the picture, he was shirtless, tattoo and stomach scar fresh, wearing bright floral swimming shorts and holding an old, clunky vape pen in one hand. The other was pointing a finger-gun at the camera.

The next picture was a crowded selfie, again showing young Hank, a like-wise thirty year old Jeffrey Fowler, and a woman Connor extrapolated was Fowler's wife. It appeared to be their wedding, as they were dressed formally. All three wore the slightly glazed expression of the deliriously happy and moderately intoxicated. When Connor shared this with Hank, his face grew wistful.

"That was a great night. You should send that picture to me, so I can drown Fowler in nostalgia the next time he's pissed at me. Just don't ever mention Fowler's bachelor party around his wife. And stop looking at my Facebook, asshole!"

Connor obligingly sent Hank the picture, "your last status update reads only 'BIG MOOD' and has a picture of a crab with a cigarette in its claw."

Hank smacked his own face.

And then an idea occurred to Connor. It was - it was _devious._

"There was a popular social media site that existed prior to and in concurrence with Facebook, unless I'm mistaken."

Confusion clouded Hank's features for a moment before his eyes widened and he drew back, "No. Absolutely not. If you find my motherfucking goddamn Jesus-tapdancing-Christ-on-a-cracker _Myspace_ page, we... we are never having sex again, I swear!"

"You are bluffing. Additionally, this would be more of a hardship for you than me, as I can simply delete those programs and subroutines from my processors. Also -" Connor paused; this endeavor was slightly more difficult to unearth, and under the name 'Henry,' but it was there, and he visibly grimaced, "it is the least aesthetically pleasing thing I've ever seen, though I've only been sensitive to aesthetics for a matter of months. There is an autoplay song that I had to disable immediately, which is egregious. Your profile picture is the main character from the late 20th century animated series colloquially known as _Dragonball Z_. Someone named Kendra Malone posted a comment about intending to sign your leg cast in English Lit, as well as querying as to why she didn't have a spot in your 'Top 8?' That's very rude of you, Hank."

"Fucking kill me," Hank held his hand to his forehead, but Connor could see a smile struggling not to crack through the beard, "Kendra fucking Malone. God, I haven't thought about her in years. I went to my senior prom with her. We both really wanted to go with...god, what was her name. Chelsea something. But she'd already said yes to someone else, and Kendra and I knew each other real well from the chess team."

It took Connor 2.6 seconds to find the pertinent picture, "the two of you look extremely adorable." They did. Seventeen year old Hank, with his easy smile, his blond hair brushed so that it was half-covering one eye, stood in a front yard wearing a dark blue tuxedo, with one arm slung around a pretty teenage girl, also wearing a blue formal gown. Her black hair was wrapped in hundreds of braids and coiled on the top of her head, and she wore a white corsage on one wrist, matching the single flower in Hank's lapel. Connor sent this one to Hank's phone as well.

Saving the cached websites aside for later perusal, Connor moved on, "you play chess?"

Hank laughed, "not well. I was 9th chair. It was something to do in the afternoons after my leg broke and I couldn't do football anymore. It's been years since I've played though."

"We could play."

"Aaaabsolutely not, Deep Blue."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:
> 
> 1) I tried to balance the badly-thought-out canon representation of Hank as a _current-day_ 50-something rather than a _future_ 50-something with the fact that he's a snake person (and only 3 years older than I am, which is weird to think about) and should act like one. He's not tech-minded, and also kind of threw himself into his career pretty early, so I don't think he'd have been Extremely Online in his 20s and 30s, and a lot of like, memes and esoteric references would go over his head. 
> 
> 2) That being said, you can pry Soft-Bro Normie-Weeb Teenage Hank from my cold, dead hands. He 100% had a trashy Myspace page in high school where he posted hardcore lyrics from heavy metal songs and paid someone on the chess team to edit it with basic HTML. ("What the hell do I have to learn that shit for? In the future, the computers will do everything for us!") Speaking of, somehow the HTML got all fucked up in this chapter. I think I fixed most of it, but if I missed stuff, sorry.
> 
> 3) I keep saying this, and I should probably do some, like, research or whatever, but I don't know much about medical things i.e. broken bones. I looked up what the bones in the hand are called, so uhhhh gimmie some points for that or something. 
> 
> 4) As a general note, this ship has literally taken over my life. The canonical game itself is kiiiind of a dumpster fire, but the fanworks that have come from it are by and large so goddamn good I'm gonna dissolve like a lavender bath bomb. It has _everything_ : the not-too-distant future, huge dogs, colossal monoliths of E X Q U I S I T E angst, figuring out what it means to be a person, rockin' twinks, bear daddies who we've all agreed should put their hair in a bun/ponytail. Everything. The fics in this fandom are so fucking good I want to die and I'm having a blast with everyone's headcanons. So thanks for letting me be a part of this weird-ass sandbox. 
> 
> 5) Chapter title is a song from the band Metric because the lyrics are too perfect for our dumdum emotionally awkward boys. Chapter one's title is from Panic! At the Disco's _Hurricane_ , and P!AtD is the band Connor's listening to in that chapter because I just went to a Panic concert and had a bunch of bi feelings that have seeped into this fic re: Hank. Also Brendon Urie kinda looks like Connor.
> 
> 6) The Notes section is apparently my new fckn blog now. Anyway I intended this as a one-shot but I have ANOTHER chapter I'm cooking up, because this pairing has consumed me alive and spat me out.


	3. Black Flowers Blossom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A relationship progresses, a case progresses. Crises occur. Words are said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, darlings. 
> 
> 1) This chapter was supposed to a) get posted days ago and b) be longer. I foolishly trusted the wrong platform (a gmail draft) with it sans backup, and lost about half of it. I was, uh, not happy. Did you know that sometimes gmail drafts will just delete segments of your draft for no reason and there's no getting them back? Just a little FYI. 
> 
> 2) Ya'll like some MFCKN OCs?!? There's a lot of them in this chapter and possibly the next. I tried to trim them down but this story's grown way out of its one-shot container and I had to transplant it into something with a lot of non-canon characters. Sorry about that. 
> 
> 3) Special shout-out for this chapter to the Criminal Rights of the Accused class I took in college. It was taught by a silver fox professor who got really excited about the U.S. Constitution. I'm not a lawyer so I don't know that the legal argument posited in this chapter would hold up in court, but we're already suspending our disbelief for horny androids so wiggles to the 4th Amendment should be a breeze.
> 
> 4) I want to content warn in this chapter for some minor homophobic/biphobic language. It's about two lines long and is more dismissive than hostile but I wanted to put it out there. 
> 
> 5) I deviated (*finger guns*) from my POV order a bit here, since there was stuff in this chapter I wanted to explore from Hank and Connor's different perspectives. POV switches are denoted by these bad boys: --
> 
> 6) Chapter title is from the song _Teardrop_ by Jose Gonzalez. Yeah yeah I'm putting together a Connor/Hank playlist because I've lost control of my life.

The sole witness of the murder, if she could even be referred to as such, waited in an empty conference room, alternating between rubbing her bare arms and sipping from the plastic cup containing the station's coffee that Hank called "dirt water."

Her name was Leila Al-Syed. 23 years old. Graduate student at Wayne State, studying Political Science. She lived with a roommate, Peter Goldberg, who had not been present at the time of the murder.

Hank had gone to take the official statement from the suspect. Connor knew it was because he was worried for Connor's mental state, given what had happened at the crime scene. Connor had not protested.

Connor entered the room, shutting the door behind him. The conference room windows were open, overlooking the bullpen, but the room itself was silent.

"Good morning," Connor said, "my name is Connor; we spoke over the phone. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me on such short notice."

Leila smiled, but the look turned to shock as her eyes focused on Connor's LED. From this, Connor anticipated anger, a lack of cooperation, fear. He did not expect her to burst into tears, which she did.

"I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! " she sobbed into her hands.

Connor cocked his head at her, "if you would be more comfortable with a human taking your statement, we can arrange that."

"No, no! It's not that. No, it's fine, I swear."

Connor moved to the row of cabinets along the far wall, locating an old box of very inexpensive tissues that were most likely uncomfortable for human use. He placed them on the table in front of her and took a seat.

"Why is my presence causing you distress?" he asked.

Leila took a tissue and blew her nose, "I'm sorry. It's not you. It's that...I knew... there was an android there."

"I - see," Connor frowned, "I'm - going to begin taking your statement now, Leila. Do I have your permission to record a copy?"

Leila nodded, still weeping.

"Begin recording for case file #89076-323. Acting Detective Connor RK800 taking official witness statement. Please state your name, age and address for the record."

"Umm. Leila Al-Syed, age 23. 899 Old Forest Road, unit 22."

"Please take me through the events as you remember them."

"Ok. Uh. Ok. First I gotta...uh. Explain something. So like a year and a half ago, I came home at about the same time as Jeremy. He had another man with him, and the...the android. I said hi, asked if the android was...was his, if he'd bought her..." she winced, "is that offensive to say?"

"At the time, it would have been accurate," Connor said, "I'm not offended. Please, continue."

"Ok. So I wasn't really friendly with Jeremy, right? He kinda gave me the creeps a little. He never really gave me a reason to, it was just one of those intuition things, with his mannerisms and way of speaking. And I mean, plenty of people had...had household androids, right? So I made some joke about how it must be great to have enough money for an android to clean your house and make you food, and he laughed, and the guy with him gave me this gross leer, and I went inside and - and -" she choked up, tears welling in her eyes, "I went in my apartment and told Peter, and we _laughed_ about it. About how he was probably _f-fucking_ her. And then - and that's what he was doing, right? She went deviant or whatever and he still kept her? Fucking her?"

Connor kept his face impassive. "And then...and this is the worst part, ok? I fucking _forgot_ about her. I went on with my life and forgot about her, like she was a microwave or something, even when the android uprising happened and you guys were given rights, I didn't remember that there was a fucking _person_ right next door, trapped. I'm so sorry."

It almost made Connor smile. It was regrettable, of course, that Leila had disregarded the android and put her from her mind, but the honest contrition showed a level of recognition of android personhood that Connor took some solace in.

"Ms. Al-Syed. Leila. What happened is not your fault. It's natural to feel a sense of responsibility and guilt. But given the circumstances, you can't have been expected to do anything different."

"I still feel like the worst person on the planet."

"I can tell you with 100% certainty and no margin for error that you are not the worst person on the planet, if that's any comfort."

Through her tears, Leila smiled, "it's kind of nice to hear, I guess."

Connor smiled too, "I'm glad. Please, continue with your statement, if you're able. And if you can, please describe the individual you saw with Mr. Pretasky the night the android arrived."

\--

Hank settled down into the uncomfortable interrogation room chairs across from the Traci. She still looked slightly dazed, not meeting Hank's eyes, and her LED was still a solid red circle. She hadn't been handcuffed, at Hank's insistence, even though the techs had fixed whatever fucked-up shit Pretasky had done to her, restoring her strength and everything else to factory settings.

"Good morning, uh," Hank checked the case file on the tablet in front of him for her serial number, "13 -"

"You can call me Red," she interrupted.

"Why's that?"

"It's what my cellmate calls me," she said, "because of my LED. She says it keeps her up at night, 'weirding her out.'"

_Well, at least she was more verbal_ , "ok, Red. I know my partner already basically took your statement, but with android rights being what they are, we believe it's prudent to do this the old-fashioned way as well. You've waived your right to an attorney - against everyone's advice, by the way - but we gotta take a statement. So I want to run things down from the top. Start from the night before the murder occurred."

She looked at Hank in the eye for the first time. Hank suppressed a shiver. He'd seen that dead-eyed stare too many times before.

"Jeremy came home at 2:03 am," she spoke clearly, clinically, reminding Hank of the way the android nurse at the clinic had talked, "he proceeded to have sex with me for 14 minutes and 23 seconds. At 2:20 pm, he received a phone call from Robert Marvin, a friend of Jeremy's who occasionally visited Jeremy and had sex with me while Jeremy watched."

_Jesus Christing Fuck_ , Hank thought, utilizing his decades of training to keep a straight face. He wondered if those memories had ended up in Connor's brain, and knew they had.

Red wasn't done, "they discussed replacing me, as Jeremy wanted an upgraded model. They agreed to meet the next day at 12 pm at Marvin's house to make the trade."

"Back up a second," Hank said, feeling in his gut that familiar cold of a relatively simple case blooming into something much bigger and worse, "is this Robert Marvin character trafficking androids?"

"I don't know. I know that Jeremy spent considerable time at Marvin's house, and that he was paid for whatever he did there. I was never taken there. I was brought online in Jeremy's car with Marvin and Jeremy on the way over to the apartment for the first time. I don't know where I was stored before that."

_Fuck_ , "when was the last time Marvin...was at the apartment?"

"May 22, from 8:34 pm to 10:55 pm."

"Ok. Alright," _fuck_ , "go on."

"Jeremy fell asleep at 3:50 am. At 5:26 am, when he entered REM sleep, I left the bedroom and found a knife. I returned to the bedroom and cut Jeremy's throat. He woke up, screamed, and I stabbed him several more times while he attempted to fight me away. He fell while trying to leave the bed, and crawled into the kitchen. I followed him to verify that he was dead. I then returned to the bedroom and stayed there until the police arrived."

Hank sighed, "my partner says that you deviated eleven months ago. Were you aware in any capacity of the android push for civil rights?"

"Yes." Hank turned off the recorder, "why didn't you kill him sooner? Or try to get away? Connor said that you'd been...messed with...but you were clearly able to kill him in spite of that."

For a moment, Red looked lost, confused, "I - I don't know. I didn't like it, being there. But I didn't know there was anything else. I didn't know where to go. I didn't really understand the things I heard on the news when Jeremy watched it. But then, when he spoke on the phone with Marvin, I - I was afraid."

Hank nodded, "ok. That's...that's all I needed. We might have further questions for you," he leaned back in the shitty chair and regarded her, "are you being treated alright?"

Red nodded, "I'm - happier, I think. My cellmate is a human woman in custody on suspicion of Red Ice distribution. She is - kind to me. The guards at the correctional facility have been - professional."

_Rooming with a fucking Red Ice dealer in a prison cell is a goddamn step-up, I guess_ , Hank thought, "good. Like my partner said, if anything changes on that front, get in touch with us," he rose to leave.

"Lieutenant Anderson?" she looked up at him, questioning. He raised his eyebrows, indicating that she continue, "when I interfaced with Connor, I received some of his feelings for you. Is that what love is?"

_Holy shit, this is beyond my pay grade by like 1000 pay grades._

"I...I think it is, Red. We're...it's complicated."

"I see," she looked thoughtful, "I want that."

"I hope you get it," Hank said gruffly, "Truly. Thank you for your time."

Hank left, leaning against the wall outside the interrogation room, trying to get his mental bearings.

His phone chose that moment to ring.

\--

When Hank returned to his desk, Connor was already present, having uploaded the witness statement and gotten Hank a fresh cup of coffee. Hank sat down at his desk heavily and leaned his head back, rubbing his eyes.

Connor got up and rounded their desks, perching on Hank's.

"Did the interrogation not go well?"

"Uhhhhh..." Hank groaned, "it went. We got something else to worry about on that vein. But I...got a phone call."

Connor tilted his head, "what about?"

Hank moved his hands from his eyes and leaned forward a little, into Connor's space, "well, uh. My cousin died."

Connor was aware that he'd opened his mouth and then shut it and probably looked foolish. He took Hank's hand, holding it in both of his, "I'm sorry. Were you close?"

"Yeah. Or, we were, at least. Same age, grew up together, lived like three blocks away, went to the same schools, all that. Kinda drifted apart when he went to college and I went to the academy. And then we drifted apart even more when...when Cole died. When I drifted apart from everybody. He's...he was... a psychologist, which was the last thing I wanted to be around at the time."

Hank looked down at the floor and shook his head. Connor was quiet. Reed walked by and scoffed, "Jesus, get a fucking room." They both ignored him.

"His husband Manny was the one who called. He said Greg slipped in the shower. Died the next day at the hospital. Funeral's Friday."

"Do you want to go?" Connor asked softly.

"I should. And I want to, even if I really, actually don't. But uh," he looked up at Connor, "I'd like it if you came too."

Connor's eyebrows rose, "you do?"

"Yeah. I do. I don't really know at what point in the timeline of relationships for when you're supposed to start taking each other as dates to funerals, but I definitely...could use a friendly face."

"My face _was_ designed to inspire a sense of camaraderie."

Hank grunted out a chuckle, and pulled his hand away from Connor's. Connor missed the warmth, "so fuckin' weird. Anyway. How'd your witness statement go?"

"It was - interesting. There's a lead I want to check out. It may be nothing, but Ms. Al-Syed made note of an associate of Pretasky's who was present the day 1349678-09 first arrived at Pretasky's apartment. She claimed to have seen him several more times over the course of the last year, and said that she never noticed Pretasky have any other visitors."

Hank raised his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head, "so, you're using your instinct."

"I don't have an instinct, Hank. I have programming."

"Mmm, maybe. But I bet your programming is also telling you to disregard this guy because he doesn't seem to have anything to do with the murder, right? So why even mention it? Unless something else is telling you otherwise."

Connor regarded his partner closely. He looked - smug?

"Why? What do you know?"

"It's just that Red - that's what the Traci wants to be called now, and I'm calling her that because I can barely remember _your_ serial number, sorry - made mention of a Robert Marvin, who delivered her to Pretasky's apartment and then also made several rapey visits to Pretasky and Red afterwards, and that the two discussed replacing Red the night before the murder. She also stated that Pretasky did something at Marvin's house for which he was paid."

"Android trafficking?"

"Sounds likely enough. Marvin running the show, or acting as a middle-man for someone else, and Pretasky doing the tech work on the androids themselves."

Connor rose and took his seat, connecting to the computer, "there's a Robert Marvin who worked with Pretasky at the advertising firm as a mid-level manager. Thirty-two years old. Charged with parking violations only."

He spun the monitor around to show Hank the picture on the firm's website. Marvin's blond hair was styled fashionably, and he had a toothy smile that did not reach his eyes.

"Looks like a fucking creep."

"Is that probable cause?" Connor raised an eyebrow.

"Unfortunately not. But if we can match that photo to an image in Red's memory files of him actively raping her, that'll be more than enough to bring him in. I got an exact date and time from her for his last visit, so we don't have to sift through a bunch of snuff film footage."

Matching the picture to the records took longer than it should have, as Hank wouldn't let Connor do it, instead delegating the task to the media technicians. They were still arguing about it when the picture came back as a match, in the car on the way to Marvin's office, and into the lobby.

"I'm not treating you like a _child_ , Con, _Jesus._ You had to witness something traumatic and I'm worried about your mental state."

"Yes, I witnessed something traumatic and then _deleted the memory_. Besides, I was programmed for police work. I'm more than capable of experiencing and seeing unpleasant things."

"I know that, but you're a fucking person now and - good morning, ma'am, I'm Lieutenant Hank Anderson, and this is my partner, Detective Connor. We're with the Detroit Police Department. We were wondering if you could point us to the office of Mr. Robert Marvin?"

The receptionist, a human woman, blinked at the two of them as their argument cut seamlessly into an introduction.

"Oh! Um. Bobby actually quit yesterday."

"Do you know why?" Connor asked.

"No. He didn't give any notice, either. The whole building is talking about it though, what with Jeremy dying and all. Why? Did he do something wrong?" her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "did Robert kill Jeremy?"

"Mr. Marvin is not currently a suspect in Mr. Pretasky's death, ma'am," Connor stated carefully, "we just need to ask him a few questions."

Hank handed her his card, "if he happens to come in, to pick up his stuff or whatever, give us a call."

The drive to Marvin's apartment took almost thirty minutes.

"It's a little weird," Hank said, pulling up in front of an older suburban house, "a young go-getter ad-guy like Marvin, living way out here away from all the good downtown parties when he's got no kids."

A knock on the door yielded no answer, and a look inside the windowed garage showed no car.

Hank called in an APB while Connor walked around the perimeter of the house, sensors on high alert. He crouched down next to a tiny basement window. It was covered in a reflective film on the inside.

"Whatcha got there, Con?" Hank approached as Connor laid a hand on the glass.

"The basement appears to be seven degrees hotter than the rest of the house."

Hank ran a hand through his hair, then seemed to get frustrated with it and tugged an elastic off his wrist to bind his hair back. This was easier said than done with one hand in a cast. Connor leaned in close and pulled the elastic away, gathering Hank's hair gently into a bundle and tying it up. He noted a three bpm increase in Hank's heart rate, and a minute blush in Hank's face.

"Thanks," Hank said softly, and then he was back to business, "unfortunately, that's no good. We need a warrant to use heat sensors to gather evidence, and I don't know that we can get a warrant with what we've got so far."

" _Kyllo v. United States_ , 2001," Connor said instantly, "the majority decision stated that it was an unreasonable search to utilize a thermal imaging _device_ to gather warrantless evidence. As I am legally a person, and not a device, I don't believe the same logic would apply."

"Holy shit, Con. I fucking love you. We're totally fuckin' tonight."

Connor gave Hank what he hoped was a flirty smile, "if that's what you're into, I can start citing more legal precedent in our day-to-day lives."

"Listen, you could recite the majority opinion in every Fourth Amendment case in history and I'd still have a good time. Let's go get a warrant."

\--

The warrant, as usual, took too damn long to come through, and Hank had to reschedule his therapy appointment that evening, something he hated doing because he hated therapy to begin with and always wanted to get it done as soon as possible. Then, he and Connor were stuck with Gavin and Nines, of-fucking-course, as back-up. All he really wanted to do was go home, eat something greasy if Connor would let him, drink a beer, fuck Connor into the mattress, and go to sleep.

Instead, he was sweating through a bulletproof vest in 90% humidity, gun drawn, watching Reed stub out a cigarette, waiting for Nines to kick down some asshole's front door.

_BANG_ , "DETROIT PD! DOWN ON THE GROUND, HANDS ON YOUR HEADS!" Nines shouted like he was holding a megaphone. Hank wondered whether Connor was capable of yelling that loud, or if it was an upgrade unique to Nines.

The first floor was clear. Reed and Nines headed upstairs, Connor and Hank to the basement. Thankfully, there was a light switch near the top of the stairs. Hank had been down into too many perp basements that hadn’t had that option.

“Detroit PD!” Connor announced behind him, in case Nines’ loudspeaker of a voice hadn’t travelled down there, “Down on the ground, hands on your heads!”

Gun-first, Hank stepped off the stairs and turned the corner. The first thing he saw was the body on the table. It took him a moment to locate the LED, which wasn’t lit up. The body was male, easy to discern because they weren’t wearing clothes.

Propped sitting against the walls were roughly a dozen more androids. Hank didn’t need to look for LEDs on them because they weren’t covered in skin. None of them showed signs of life, and all were plugged into a large generator in the middle of the room. An ancient desktop computer sat on a cheap desk in one corner, a big silver server next to it. There was a laptop plugged into the android on the table. No signs of any humans.

Hank hoped Reed and Nines were more lucky upstairs, but he wasn’t hopeful. Breathing out air he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, Hank holstered his gun and stepped into the room, eager to check on the state of the androids.

The silence of the basement was broken by something clattering to the concrete ground, followed by a choking noise.

Hank spun around in time to see Connor silently shake like he was having a seizure, then fall to his knees next to his dropped service pistol, eyes rolled to the back of his head, mouth open, LED a violent, solid red.

“Connor!” Hank shouted, struggling to pull him into his arms, “Connor, what’s wrong? Talk to me! Connor!”

Connor’s body was stiff as rebar, twitching and shaking violently.

“GAVIN! NINES! GET DOWN HERE!”

Somehow, in a corner of his vision that wasn’t occupied by Connor’s slack, twitching, insanely human-looking face, he noticed two little black boxes nestled on either side of the basement’s doorway. Two sets of heavy footsteps pounded through the first floor and then down the basement steps.

“Nines! Not you! Stay on the stairs!” Hank ordered, the footsteps stopping. Reed continued, slower than before, gun still drawn.

“There’s some kind of...of field or something, I don’t know,” Hank said, “We gotta get him out of here, upstairs, c’mon.”

Shockingly, Reed made no argument as he holstered his gun and took Connor’s legs. Together, they half-dragged Connor’s seizing body up to where Nines waited.

The larger android pushed Hank out of the way and pulled Connor easily into a fireman’s carry, taking the remaining steps two by two.

“Call it in,” he barked at Reed, “we got about a dozen android victims, not sure if dead or alive, and tell ‘em not to send any android officers or techs.”

Reed was on the phone before they reached the first floor, Hank thinking dumbly that he'd never in his life gotten such good responses out of the man.

Once in the kitchen, Hank swept papers and knick-knacks off the dining table and Nines laid Connor down. In the seconds since they’d moved him, Connor’s eyes had shut and his LED had started spinning, though it was still red. He’d mostly stopped seizing, and now only had twitching in his extremities.

“Connor!” Hank yelled, grabbing one of Connor’s hands, not caring if he got another broken bone out of it,

“Con, can you hear me?”

“I think he’s overloaded,” Nines said, his eerie eyes scanning Connor’s body rapidly.

“You think?” Hank snarled at him. The sound of Connor's voice coming out calm and dry while the actual Connor lay twitching went straight to his gut.

Nines seemed unaffected by Hank’s outburst. He took two fingers and forced open one of Connor’s eyes to peer into it, “I’m a detective, not an engineer. I have enough knowledge of my own systems to run self-diagnostics and perform basic maintenance.”

“Ok, but your guys’ systems are like, the same, right?”

“Largely,” Nines let Connor’s eyelid go and placed both hands on Connor’s head, forcing it to turn. Hank wanted to scream at him for being so rough, but he knew that wouldn’t be helpful, so he concentrated on Connor’s trembling hand in his.

“I’m going to force his skin off to open a panel on his head,” Nines explained, “this may be - strange to see for you.”

“Do whatever the fuck you have to.”

The skin slid away from Nines’ own hand as he ran two fingers over the back of Connor’s head, and then the hair started rippling away, followed by the skin of his face and neck. Hank had seen Connor’s hands without skin before, but never the rest of him, and it was disquietingly intimate. He wished Nines wasn’t here for this, even though he was the one doing the actual helping.

Skin completely faded into stark white plastic, Nines prodded again at the back of Connor’s head, and a panel popped open.

Hank got an eyeful of blinking lights and wires and computer chips and tubes of that violent, vibrant blue blood before he turned his head, suddenly nauseated by looking directly at what was essentially the brain of the man he loved. And if there had been any doubt in his mind that he loved Connor, that he’d just had a crush or been overwhelmed by lust, the sight of Connor skinless and shaking on a table had swept that away.

“He’ll need to be force-reset,” Nines said, “let go of his hand or when he comes back online he may crush that one, too. In this state I can't be certain what his physiological reaction might be.”

“Will he be ok? It’s not going to restore him to fucking...factory settings or something? Wipe his memory?”

“No. Any damage to his systems will have been caused by the power overload itself. He may experience minor memory loss of the incident, not unlike a human losing memories of a traumatic injury.”

Reluctantly, Hank let go of Connor’s hand, just as Reed came back in, whistling low at the scene before him.

“Shut up, Reed,” Hank said, but there was no real venom behind it.

Nines reached into Connor and did something that Hank didn’t want to see, and Connor’s twitching stopped, LED blank. Something else Hank had never seen.

Reed had no compunctions about staring directly into Connor’s skull, “how long does he need to be out? Is this like those old computers where you had to hold down on the power button for a while to get it to reboot right?”

Hank thought very seriously about shoving Reed’s face through the glass pane of the back door. Luckily for Reed, Nines grabbed the back of the detective’s shirt collar and yanked him away, ignoring the strangled yelp it caused. His fingers returned to Connor’s head again and something was pressed, and Connor’s LED came to life, cycling through all its colors rapidly before settling on a spinning yellow.

Nines pushed the head panel closed and they waited, watching the spinning LED. Hank could hear sirens approaching.

After what seemed like an eternity, Connor’s eyes opened with no warning. He blinked several times, turning his head to look at the three faces staring at him. His eyes were profoundly dark in comparison to his white face. Hank took hold of Connor’s hand again, ignoring the weird feeling of plastic instead of skin.

_This is him, the real him. Deal with it._

“What happened?” Connor jerked like he was trying to rise. Both Hank and Nines placed hands on his chest, forcing him back down.

“Stay there for a few minutes,” Nines ordered, “I believe there was an electromagnetic field in the entrance to the basement that caused your system to overload. I had to perform a force-reset.”

Connor reached for Nines with the hand that Hank wasn’t occupied with. Nines returned the gesture with his own skinless hand. Hank gathered that it was some kind of android “thank you,” and tamped the jealousy down.

“You look like shit without your skin, dude,” Reed said. He was trying to light a cigarette. Hank had almost forgotten about him.

“You look like shit _with_ your skin,” Connor replied lightly, staring at the ceiling. Hank smiled and gripped a little tighter.

Nines grabbed Reed by the back of his shirt again and maneuvered him bodily out of the kitchen, Reed complaining that he wasn’t a fucking cat.

Alone for the moment, Hank leaned over and placed a chaste kiss on Connor’s plastic lips, “you scared the shit outta me, Con. I’m sorry, I should’ve noticed those emitter things sooner.”

“I should have noticed them with my sensors,” Connor said, “I was distracted.”

“By what? My sweet ass in front of you?”

“Will I get points if I say yes?”

“Oh, one hundred percent,” another kiss.

Connor closed his eyes and Hank watched the skin flow back into place. He wondered how Connor’s hair worked. It was solid; Hank had certainly gripped it and played with it enough to know that for sure. He’d ask later, he resolved, helping Connor sit and then stand.

“Do you feel alright? Nines said there might be some minor memory loss.”

“I am operating within normal parameters. I do have a missing segment of memory, beginning when you stepped into the basement and ending when I re-started.”

“That’s good, but it’s not what I asked you. Do you _feel_ alright?”

Connor considered, his LED spun yellow, “I do. I am somewhat low on battery. And - tense, perhaps.”

“Tired and stressed. Let’s finish this up and get you home as fast as possible.”

Reed and Nines had apparently completed briefing the clean-up team, as the house was soon swarmed with CSI and techs.

“There’s eleven androids total in the basement,” the chief technician, a young woman named Darcy explained to Hank and Connor as they leaned against Hank’s car, bathed in the harsh blinking red and blue police lights in the twilight, “seven female, four male. The ten without skin appear to be completely blank - their hard drives wiped, memories and personalities deleted, replaced with nothing.”

“Jesus…” Hank looked at Connor, making sure he was processing the fact that ten of his people had essentially been made brain-dead. He was listening to Darcy, but staring off at nothing.

Darcy went on, “The last one, the one on the table with his skin, has just been shut off. We think a manual re-start would be enough to bring him back, but we didn’t want to do it here.”

“Good,” Connor said, still not looking at her, “it would likely be traumatic. We don’t know what he went through before he was shut down.”

Darcy hesitated, but continued, “I have a theory…”

“Spit it out, we don’t have all night,” Hank knew he was being an asshole, but Connor had made him nearly shit his pants in fear not even an hour ago, and he wanted them both home, in bed, cuddling with Sumo.

“I think the androids’...personalities, and code, maybe even memories...are stored on the server in the basement.”

Connor looked up at that.

“The server is plugged into that old computer, and the only thing running on it is some kind of code-interface program. I believe they may have been using it to edit the androids’ programs, as it’s too old for androids to interface with, in case the electromagnetic field in the basement failed and the androids woke up. The more modern laptop seems to have been used just to do the deleting and transference of code.”

“Shit, how the hell did they even manage to even plug everything in to everything else? That computer’s so old I think I played _Oregon Trail_ on it in fucking grade school.”

Darcy gave Hank a blank look. He felt very old for a moment and let her move past it.

“The program seems like it was created for this specific purpose, likely by the assailants themselves. I’ll need more time for my team and me to look into everything, of course.”

“Ok. What do we do with them in the meantime?” Hank asked. He hadn’t thought about it. If they’d been human hostages, they’d be taken to a hospital for evaluation and treatment.

He considered taking them to CyberLife, now under Elijah Kamski’s control again, but Hank trusted the little weirdo as far as he could throw him, even if they weren’t selling androids anymore.

“I’ll call Markus,” Connor stood, sticking his hands into his pockets, “I’ll see what he thinks.”

Thirty minutes later, efficient as always, a large windowless van pulled up to the police barricade and was waved past. Connor went to meet them, and Hank waited with trepidation.

“Hank, this is Markus and North. I’m glad you’re finally meeting,” Connor said as they approached. His smile did look a little tired, “Markus, North, this is Lieutenant Hank Anderson.”

Markus shook Hank’s hand. He had an extremely trustworthy face.

North did not offer her hand.

“It _is_ good to meet, after hearing so much about you,” Markus said.

“That’s not exactly reassuring,” Hank threw a smile Connor’s way, “I can’t imagine the reports must’ve been entirely glowing.”

“Oh, on the contrary, Lieutenant,” Markus gave him an easy smile.

North made an impatient movement, “so, eleven androids?”

“Yes. I assume Connor updated you on the situation?” Hank had heard about her from Connor. He described her as “prickly” when it came to humans. Hank couldn’t really blame her.

The human techs had brought the androids out of the basement and laid them out on the floor of the kitchen, covered in shock blankets. It was a strange departure from the way Red had been treated at her crime scene. Maybe Hank’s yelling had gotten around.

Both Markus and North attempted to interface with them. The only one who responded, predictably, was the one with skin. They described interfacing with the others as connecting to a computer terminal; there was life, movement, but no substance behind it.

Hank knew where this was leading. He knew it’d be up to him, as the ranking officer on-site. He knew he might get his ass handed to him by Fowler. He also knew he didn’t really have a choice.

He drew Markus away from the rest of the group, “I think you need to take them.”

Markus nodded, “we don’t have the resources at New Jericho for it, but I’ll take them to my house.”

“It'll be in their best interest, but it's not going to be easy. There's no precedence for this. I won’t be able to stop my Captain from sending officers and techs in and out at all hours to run the investigation. Are you prepared for that?”

“As long as they respect my guests and the house, that’s fine.”

Though he looked nothing like the near-twins Connor and Nines, Hank could see how Markus was their predecessor.

Hank cleared his throat and prepped his best Cop Voice. Humans and androids alike ended their conversations and turned to look, “alright, people. We’re gonna load up all the androids and the server into Markus and North’s van. We’ll have to run this part of our investigation out of Markus’ residence as we figure out the issues with the android victims. I know it’s not strictly what we’re used to in terms of protocol, but we’re breaking new ground here. Any questions?”

Darcy spoke up, “you said the server as well. I need to impound that as evidence.”

“It’s not strictly evidence when it potentially contains minds and memories. Like I said, we’re breaking new ground. I assume you already tested the exterior for prints and DNA?”

“Of course, sir, but -”

“If it turns out we fucked this up, it’s my ass on the line, not any of yours. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Connor, you coordinate moving the androids. Nines and Darcy, talk to Markus and North and figure out logistics. Reed, organize a police escort and around-the-clock security at Markus' house. Let’s get to it, people. I want to get some sleep at some point this lifetime.”

It made Hank smile; androids and humans working together. Maybe because the humans in question were police, used to hierarchies and orders and acting quickly, but even so, everyone came together and the job got done.

There was a slightly sticky situation when Reed, frustrated that the clean-up was taking so long, yelled at Nines, who was discussing timetables with North, "hey, TIN CAN, can we fuckin' go yet?"

Nines and North turned to Reed, who visibly quailed under their combined cold gaze.

Nines casually leaned over and plucked Reed’s cigarrette from his mouth, pinching it out, "we will leave when we're ready, meatbag."

North snorted.

It'd definitely gotten to Reed, but he still managed to mutter, "yeah, whatever, asshole. Shouldn't have told you about _Futurama_."

"North! Wait!" Hank jogged after her as she pulled herself into the van's driver seat.

She paused and her gaze swept him, the distrust evident on her face, "What is it?"

"Look, I know you're busy, and about to be even busier, but if you have time...there's an android at the jail downtown who got mixed up in all this. The guy who bought her was really fucked up, did all sorts of horrible shit to her. She killed him, and is awaiting trial for his murder. We're obviously gonna testify that it was self-defense, that she was being held hostage, but there's only so much we can do. She's waived her right to an attorney so far, and she's really fucked in the head from the whole thing. If you have time, can you, or someone, go down there and...I don't know, try to give her some kind of support? Advice, maybe?"

North was unreadable, her face covered in that android stillness, aside from her eyes studying Hank's face, and a slight frown between her eyebrows, "yeah. I can do that. Do you have her information?"

"Uh, yeah. Shit, I don't have my notebook, or my phone. Do you have any paper and a pen?"

Her face changed and she looked at him like he was a dirty piece of gum she'd stepped on and repeated, "paper. And a pen. What fucking year - am I an android or -"

Hank had also forgotten Red's serial number again. In the end he just tracked down Connor who relayed Red's information to North. Before she left, she turned to Hank and said, "thanks for letting me know. And Connor? You really know how to pick 'em."

Hank watched them drive away, and decided against asking Connor whether her last statement had been good or bad.

 

\--

 

The next few days were entirely occupied by work. After the first night, when Connor had to go home to charge and enter sleep mode for a full eight hours, he didn’t get another chance to rest, charging at the station or Markus’ house after sending an extremely uncooperative Hank home for the sleep the human needed.

They re-started the first android the next morning. His name was Sam, and he was a Traci model who’d gotten a job as a librarian’s assistant after the revolution. He’d been closing the library alone at night one week prior and had been attacked in the empty parking lot. He lived by himself, but his co-workers had reported him missing after a few days of no contact.

“And you don’t remember anything after being attacked?” Connor asked, “can you describe your assailants in any way?”

Sam shook his head. He had floppy black hair, and looked sad and alone in a large bed in one of Markus’ many guestrooms, “I’m sorry, no. There were three of them, I think, and they shoved a bag over my head and pushed me down into the back of a van. That’s the last thing I remember before this being re-booted this morning.”

It turned out that the other androids’ personality subroutines and memory files had indeed been stored on the server. That was the easy part. The kidnappers hadn’t bothered to keep names, serial numbers, or even model numbers on the different files; clearly they hadn’t thought it important to re-install the correct personality back into the body it had originated from once edited. The job of sorting that out, as well as identifying and correcting the edited code, fell to Darcy, who enlisted Josh and Simon as android consultants for the expedient reason that they also lived with North and Markus, didn’t need to “sleep” for very long, and could identify aberrant code very quickly.

Connor knew that there were several humans, possibly Darcy included, who wanted to involve CyberLife and their technicians on the project, and he appreciated that this hadn’t happened.

CSI had discovered a list of contacts under an encrypted email on the laptop detailing that the android trafficking ring was somewhat large, with deals having taken place, and planned to take place, throughout the region.

Which meant federal involvement.

Hank groused about it, of course, and Connor didn’t feel entirely comfortable, as there were no androids on the team the FBI sent, but he couldn’t say he wasn’t somewhat relieved to hand off the much larger and more complicated case in favor of tracking down Marvin and preparing to testify for Red’s trial.

It also meant that they could both take a full day off for Hank’s cousin’s funeral.

Connor let Hank sleep late that day, then made him a bacon and egg sandwich for breakfast, and Hank didn’t chide him for making food or doing chores. They got dressed, both in black suits, white shirts, and black ties, even though Hank said it made them look like _they_ worked for the FBI. Connor had ordered Hank’s suit online the day Hank had gotten the news about his cousin, when Hank made mention that the only suit he owned he’d also worn to Cole’s funeral and then never again.

The funeral was far in Detroit’s suburbs, so far that Connor lost his network connection several times on the drive out.

Hank seemed in decent spirits as they parked and made their way up a gravel driveway to the funeral home.

Behind it, the cemetery sat like a physical weight; bright green, freshly shorn grass and large, verdant trees, the gravestones and plaques dotting the landscape. Connor felt the presence of death in a way he never had before, even when watching humans and androids die, even when killing them himself, even when he’d been interfacing with Simon when he’d shot himself. He didn’t like it.

The feeling subsided once inside the funeral home, and it was Hank’s anxiety that increased. Connor kept a hand on the small of Hank’s back as he was introduced to the widower of Hank’s cousin, a man named Manuel Juarez-Anderson. He was about 60 (Connor was reluctant to scan him, believing it might be rude, even though nobody would know it but himself) and had red-rimmed eyes, but smiled when he shook Connor’s hand, told him to call him “Manny,” and hugged Hank.

Manny was accompanied closely by an android, a short household model who introduced herself as Penny Juarez-Anderson. She had light brown hair pulled into a bun on top of her head and wore a stylish black dress.

She smiled at Connor, “I recognized you from the news. I wondered if you were the same Connor who helped the revolution.”

Connor put his hands in his pockets. It was a tic he’d picked up from Hank, almost as calming as playing with his old coin and not nearly as obtrusive, “yeah. That was me. Were you there?”

Penny shook her head, like she was ashamed, “no. I was too afraid. I talked Manny and Greg into evacuating, but I stayed at the house.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Connor placed a hand on her arm, “that night, it was - it wasn’t - it could have gone many different ways, most of them not pleasant.”

“I know. I still kind of wish I’d been there, though.”

Connor nodded, not quite knowing how to respond, “you took Greg and Manny’s last names?”

Penny’s smile returned, “yes. After the revolution. They sat me down and told me they’d come to think of me as a kind of daughter, even before I deviated, and wanted me to stop washing their dishes and making their food. A few months later they asked if I wanted their names, so I could have something besides my model number to put down on the job applications I was filling out,” tears formed in her eyes, but she brushed them away with a tissue she clutched, “so, you and Hank? Are you...together?”

Connor could feel his face go blue, “yeah. It’s still pretty new.”

“So, that means we’re - kind of family, right?”

_Oh._

“I - never thought about it -” Connor’s hands went back into his pockets.

_Family._

He was designed to integrate with humans, like many androids, but strictly in a professional setting. His relationship with Hank was a natural, if unexpected, extension of his programming meant to facilitate a companionable partnership. But the concept of family was something almost foreign.

Penny gave him another smile and excused herself, taking Manny’s arm gently, telling him that the ceremony was about to begin. They headed to the front of the little non-denominational chapel and Connor’s hand went to Hank’s back again as they hunted down somewhere to sit.

Suddenly, Hank went stiff under Connor’s hand, “Hank? Are you alright?”

Hank said nothing, and Connor followed his gaze to a woman who had just entered the room, looking around for her own chair. She was tall, with dyed blond hair, dressed in a black skirt suit.

Connor scanned her: Katherine Miller, age 49. Human Resources Director at Detroit General Hospital. Minor traffic violations. Previous Aliases: Katherine Anderson.

He didn’t need Hank’s eventual explanation, but he got it anyway, “that’s my ex-wife. Holy shit, I’m such a fucking idiot. She fucking introduced Greg to Manny. Of course she’d be here. Of course. Jesus titfucking Christ.”

“Let’s sit down,” Connor said, as calmly as he could manage, steering Hank toward a pair of empty chairs in a corner. He decided not to mention that Hank probably shouldn’t swear and blaspheme so much inside a chapel in a funeral home, “she probably won’t notice us. There’s approximately 55 people here. We’ll leave after the service.”

“Fuck.”

“I know, Hank.”

There wasn’t an open-casket viewing. It was an aspect of human mourning that Connor had always found strange, though he understood the psychological need for closure. Gregory Anderson’s body had been cremated and placed inside a plain black urn.

The overwhelming feeling of the finality of death crept up inside Connor’s processors again; a person had lived, moved, thought, loved, and then suddenly he wasn’t doing any of those things anymore. And everything he had been was reduced to ash and bones inside a jar, or memories trapped in the minds of those he’d known.

Connor gripped Hank’s hand. The service was short and simple, with very little in the way of traditional religious overtones. The funeral home’s pastor gave a somewhat convincing performance that he cared about this particular funeral. Manny and Penny stood to give a few choked-up words and thank everyone for coming, and then the crowd began to filter out, eager to reach the reception area where they could clutch water or coffee cups while having to discuss a dead man.

Before Hank and Connor could reach the door, Penny found them again, turning to Hank this time, “Manny wanted to talk to you. We didn’t have much time before, and he wants to arrange a time for us to meet so we can give you some things Greg kept from your guys’ childhood. Come with me?”

Connor squeezed Hank’s hand and smiled, “I’ll wait outside.”

Walking out to the side of the building, Connor took a seat on an old stone bench under a tree that looked out on the cemetery. The approaching storm clouds on the horizon didn't interfere with the sun, and Connor filed away the feeling of the heavy, moist heat on his synthetic skin. He knew that if he had sweat glands, he'd likely feel differently. He didn't know if he wanted that or not.

Connor knew that someone was approaching him, but didn't move to look at her until she stood in front of the bench.

He straightened his tie.

"Hi," she said, "I'm Katie Miller. Hank's ex-wife."

She didn't hold out a hand to shake, and stood slightly too close, looming over Connor. He calculated the amount of time it would take to incapacitate her (3.9 seconds) but her proximity was still disconcerting for some reason.

"I'm Connor," he said.

Her eyes swept him up and down, lingering on the LED in that familiar way that always made Connor uncomfortable. He considered for the 412th time whether he should remove it.

"So what are you to Hank?"

"He's my-" Connor hesitated, running algorithms. He wanted to say "boyfriend," but they hadn't discussed that particular title, and Hank had only mentioned it once, while actively arguing against their relationship. “Partner” didn’t appeal to him, given the connotations of a strictly professional relationship.

He must have been calculating slightly too long, because Katie rolled her eyes and spoke, "Lemmie guess. He doesn't want to put 'labels' on it. Has he told you we were together five years and he didn't propose until I was pregnant?"

"Although it is considered traditional in American human male-female couples for the male to propose to the female, I was under the impression that in contemporary times such a conversation could be initiated by either party."

"Yeah, well, maybe you're not there yet, but trying to talk to Hank about emotions is like having a discussion with a brick wall that's constantly retreating."

Connor stood up, crowding Katie. His planned cutting remark was edited when she stepped back, a look of worry flashing over her face.

He looked away briefly, focusing on a bird that sang in the tree above them. It was a starling.

"He's doing a lot better," Connor said.

Katie smiled sadly, "Good. That's all I want. I wasn't able to help him without sacrificing my own well-being."

Connor's algorithms didn't have a response for that. There were a lot of unexpected variables in human conversation. Fortuitously, (?) Hank walked up. He’d taken off his jacket in the heat. Connor could immediately sense his tension.

"Katie," Hank said shortly.

"Hank," Katie replied, "so you're gay now?"

The atmosphere that had started slowly simmering down immediately intensified again.

"Are you goddamn serious?” Hank said through gritted teeth, “Two years since we've even spoken and this is the direction you want to go? It's fucking 2039, people are allowed to be bisexual."

"I thought you hated androids. Thought they weirded you out. Thought one of them killed our son."

In spite of the heat, Connor felt cold.

Hank tensed even further, staring at Katie. Connor put a hand on Hank's arm, but when Hank spoke he just sounded tired, "things change. People change. And you were the one always trying to tell me that what happened to Cole wasn't anyone's fault, just a series of accidents and one incompetent fuck on Red Ice. Jesus, Katie. You _had_ to come over and talk to Connor? You _had_ to try and rile me up, just for old time's sake?"

"I just wanted to see how you were doing."

Hank shook his head, "yeah, whatever. I'm doing fine. Let's go, Connor."

They left her standing on the grass under the tree.

The car had become oven-like in the sun on the blacktop parking lot. They got in the car, Hank dialing up the mediocre air conditioning as high as it would go, which wasn't very high. Connor created a reminder to buy a sunshade, as Hank's car was too old to have one inbuilt.

"Do you want to talk -" Connor began.

"I really do not, Con," Hank ripped off his tie and threw it into the backseat.

For once, Connor didn't argue.

\--

The drive home was completely silent except for the patter of rain on the windows and the squeak of the wipers. Hank didn't even put on music, and Connor stared resolutely ahead, though Hank could feel those eyes on him every so often.

Scanning, probably. Running algorithms based on Hank's probable behavior. Establishing preconstructions.

They pulled into the driveway and Connor opened his door to get out but paused, realizing that Hank hadn't turned off the car. He looked at Hank, his head tilted, eyes full of concern.

"Don't look at me like that," Hank stared at his hands gripping the steering wheel, "I need to be alone for a while."

"Are you going to a bar?"

Hank glared at him, "so fucking what if I am?"

Connor stared, blank-faced, emotionless, rain dripping onto the arm that held the door open.

Hank hated it; even when Connor'd been a machine he'd always been at least emulating emotion. Right on time, the self-loathing welled up from where it'd been lurking for the past few days.

_See that, you ugly old fuck. You useless piece of shit. You made him look like that. The best thing you've had in your pathetic life besides the son you killed._

"Just...get in the goddamn house, please."

Another few heartbeats that Hank knew Connor was monitoring, and then he swung himself out of the seat, shut the door carefully, straightened his tie, and walked up to the front door.

Hank pulled out of the driveway.


	4. I'll Wait On You Inside The Bottom Of The Deep Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Words, and actions. 
> 
> *additional content warning for discussion of shitty/abusive fathers, as well as a reminder of the general tags for suicidal ideation*

Hank got as far as jerking the car into park at Jimmy's before he slammed his forehead onto the steering wheel.

"God, what the _fuck_ am I doing?"

It'd been years since he'd been there, but he still knew the route well. He pulled up in front of the big brick house with its immaculate lawn and heaved himself up the driveway like his shoes were weighted.

The doorbell gave a friendly chime and immediately he heard delighted screams and laughter from inside the house.

"Shut up, you dirty skanks, the pizza's here!" shouted an approaching voice, and the door was thrown open to reveal a teenage girl. She wore lounge clothes and had her hair in an afro-puff.

"Sorry, Tasha. I'm not the pizza," Hank spread his hands apologetically. 

"Oh my god, Hank! It's great to see you, it's been forever! But I'm Talia, by the way."

Hank winced, "sorry. I guess that's what I get for not seeing you and your sister in years."

"It's ok, we get it a lot. You here to see my dad?"

"He around?"

"Yeah, I'll get him. DAD!" she turned around and screamed up the stairs, "DAD, HANK'S HERE!"

"Hank _Anderson_?" came Fowler's voice from the top of the stairs.

"Do you know any other Hank, Dad? God," Talia rolled her eyes like every teenager in the history of time, and smiled back at Hank, "he's coming."

"Thanks, Talia. It was good to see you."

"You too. You should come by more often."

Talia's friendly smile was replaced by her father's scowl.

"Whatcha doin' here, Hank?" Fowler was wearing a Detroit Gears jersey and breakaway pants, like it was 1999.

Hank put his hands in his pockets and looked up at Fowler's door frame, "I had a dumpster fire of an afternoon, and I need to talk to someone."

"Can't talk to Connor?"

"Connor's part of the dumpster fire. Look Jeff, I...I know I've pretty thoroughly burnt this particular bridge, but...fuck. I've been doing...I've been doing alright recently, and I know me. I know that if I don't talk this out I'll backslide and make everything worse."

Fowler studied him, "couldn't have texted first?"

"I thought that you'd have a harder time saying 'no' if you saw my pretty face in person."

"Get in the goddamn house, it's raining. Wipe your feet."

Fowler led him through the house, passing a living room containing about a dozen teenage girls draped over various pieces of furniture and the floor, giggles and screeches and incomprehensible chatter mixing in with some pop song on the stereo system.

He pointed Hank over to the breakfast nook and went to the fridge, "I probably shouldn't offer this to you, but if we're gonna have to talk about your fucking feelings and your android boyfriend, who is _also_ my employee, I need a drink in my hand, so, want anything?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll have whatever you're having."

A few minutes tick by, and Hank watched the rain drip down into Fowler's backyard, listening to the innocent, silly noises from the living room, allowing himself to think about how Cole would never get the chance to have that kind of pure, dopey teenage experience. The grief washed over him like a wave at the beach, both familiar and terrifying, surrounding him, filling his chest.

The wave passed, and Fowler clunked down a sweaty gin and tonic in front of Hank, heaving himself into the chair across the little table with a grunt.

Hank lifted the glass, sipping. It was mostly tonic.

"The girls look great. How old are they now, seventeen?"

"Yeah," Fowler smiled, a genuine, non-sarcastic grin, "just graduated high school. Having one last slumber party before they all disperse across the country for college and work. Talia's going to Stanford on a basketball scholarship, gonna be pre-med. Wants to do neurology. Tasha's been accepted to MIT for cybernetics, full ride."

"That's...that's really impressive, Jeff. You done good," Hank didn't bring up the question of if it'd be strange to have a quiet house after so long. He knew it will be.

"How's Missy?"

"Still as beautiful and as much of a pain in my ass as the day we got married."

Hank jerked, remembering. He dug out his phone and flipped through the pictures, "Connor hacked into whatever dusty-ass server Facebook keeps all our old shit on. He found this on my page, from your wedding."

"Holy shit..." Fowler took the phone from Hank, zooming in on their faces, "this is amazing. Look at your dumb 2015 haircut. Look how fucking skinny I was."

"How skinny _you_ were? Please."

Fowler handed him the phone back and took a drink, "send me that picture. Hey, remember how drunk you got on the free champagne in the groomsmen's changing room?"

"I certainly remember the champagne hangover I had by 10 pm that night."

Fowler smiled again and shook his head, as though dislodging the twenty-year-old memories. For a second they were quiet, ice clinking in glasses, teenage noises filtering in from the other room.

Then Hank spoke, "so my cousin's funeral was today."

"Oh, right. That's why you guys weren't at work. How'd...how'd it go?"

"Funeral itself was fine, or as fine as it could be for a guy I grew up with who was basically middle-aged when he died of a preventable accident," Hank took a sip of the gin and tonic, "Katie was there."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"Is this the first time you've seen her since the divorce?"

"First time we've _talked_ since signing the papers."

"What happened?"

"I went off to talk to my cousin's...uh. Well, she _was_ their housekeeping android, but they got close after she deviated, and they sort of...adopted her? She took their last names and still lives with my cousin's husband, anyway. Android shit. Complicated."

"You'd know all about that."

"Jesus god, yeah. Anyway, I came back to find Katie talking to Connor. Just. Being her usual self, you know? She made a crack about him being an android, and a guy, and then involved Cole in the whole thing, and it made me wanna punch a hole in a wall, like my fuckhead dad used to do."

Out in the foyer, the doorbell rang. The girls in the living room got extremely loud, and about a minute later lapsed into near total silence as their lives became solely focused on pizza. Hank drank and rubbed his thumb on the glass's condensation.

"You and Katie were always like oil and water."

"Yeah. I thought it was, I don't know, romantic somehow? Like opposites attracting."

Fowler nodded knowingly, "so, what happened? Did she upset Connor?"

Hank laughed with no mirth behind it, "no. You know him; even Reed practically has to physically assault him to get under his perfect skin."

"Or insult _you_."

Taking another drink, Hank considered for the first time that Connor may actually have been offended on _Hank's behalf_ , and he immediately, somehow, felt like an even bigger piece of shit.

"Yeah, well. It'd be one thing if it was just Katie being Katie. But then we drove home, and I wanted a fucking drink. Not this weak-ass shit, no offense," he clinked the ice in his glass, "I wanted to go to some trash bar and tell them to leave the bottle. I wanted to wake up tomorrow in a fucking gutter. So I told Connor to get out of the car. He asked if I was going to go drink, and I said 'so fucking what if I am?' like an infantile shithead."

Fowler's gaze was inscrutable, "but you came here instead."

"Yeah. I came here instead."

"Why?"

Hank leaned forward, elbows on the table, pressing thumbs into his eyelids, "I don't know. Probably because Connor makes me want to be a better person. And I've actually kinda been succeeding, y'know? Going to therapy, working through my fucking... _survivor's guilt_ with her, eating decently, hardly drinking anymore, doing whatever basic chores I can get to before Con gets to them first."

"Coming to work, and on time," Fowler's face went smug.

"Exactly. I'm not saying I'm Boyfriend of the Year or anything, but I feel like a fucking human being for the first time since Cole died. And I think I just ruined that. With two dumb-fuck sentences," Hank finished his drink and watched the ice settle in among the dregs.

"Hank, that boy has been in love with your ugly ass for some Christ-forsaken reason since he went deviant. Maybe before, if that's even possible. He's not going to ditch you because you were an asshole."

"Ok, but I _am_ an asshole, Jeff. If it's not this time that makes him go, it'll be the next time, or the time after that. Since he broke my hand, he's terrified he's going to hurt me, that he's not...not emotionally mature enough for me. But I'm going to ruin it, like I ruin literally everything."

Fowler went quiet for a minute, finishing his own drink, before he spoke again, "alright, first off. You gotta stop with the self-loathing shit. Especially if he's got some of that same self-loathing. You have to break the cycle of each thinking you don't deserve each other, otherwise it's just a negative feedback loop of angst that I do not need to deal with ever again, whether it's at the office or in my kitchen."

"Yeah, but - "

"Shut up, I'm not done. Second, this is the only good piece of advice I ever got from my father, who as you might remember, was a dick."

"I remember. My dad was a dick too. We bonded over our dick dads."

"No, we had a pissing contest over whose dad was the bigger dick. You won. Anyway, the one good thing I can say about him was that he had an amazing relationship with my mom. They were best friends until the day she died. And yeah, personality has a lot to do with it, which is a big reason you and Katie didn't work out. But the number one thing he always pointed to with his marriage was that he fucking communicated with my mom. Even when they didn't want to. Even when it was hard. And that's what's gotten me through twenty-three years of marriage."

Rain still fell steadily. The girls in the living room had finished eating and had resumed their noisy shenanigans. The ice in Hank's glass melted slowly under the heat of his hand.

"It's fine that you needed space, to think and straighten your thoughts out. But you should have told Connor that like an adult, and not jumped down his throat when he was justifiably worried about you going on a binge. He's brand new to all this, Hank. He doesn't know how to play all the fucked-up games people play with each other. And I somehow don't think he'd want to even if he did."

Hank sighed heavily, "You're right, Jeff."

"I know I'm fucking right. Now get the hell out of my house and go make up with your stupid android. I saw you two idiots holding hands in the bullpen on Tuesday; do you think I'm blind? Keep it in your pants while you're on the clock, or I'll have you both working as crossing guards."

\--

Sumo didn't meet him at the door when Hank got home. The washing machine was running, and there was music playing in the bedroom; a high-voiced singer with an eerie voice set to melancholy instrumentals. Hank kicked off his shoes at the door and went to go find trouble.

Connor was sitting up on the bed, his long legs stretched out in front of him, feet bare. He wore soft denim pants and a plain orange t-shirt. Though he'd been living with Hank for months, seeing Connor in normal, casual clothes was still slightly jarring. He looked even younger than usual, making Hank feel worse. Like a broken, dirty old man intent on ruining some kid's life.

Connor was reading a paper book - he liked the weight, and the feel of the pages in his hands, he'd said once - with something about existentialism on the cover. It definitely wasn't something out of Hank's admittedly small library. Sumo was laying next to him, the two managing to take up the entire bed. There was no room for Hank. He leaned against the doorway.

Sumo'd looked up when Hank entered the room, but the only indication that Connor had noticed him at all was that the music's volume lowered.

Hank took a deep breath, "Connor."

"Yes, Hank?" He didn't look up.

"I'm sorry."

Silence.

Connor turned a page.

"Nihilism? Isn't that a little...depressing?"

"Existential nihilism isn't inherently negative, Hank. It just means that you're applying your own meaning to the inherent meaninglessness of existence."

_Well, at least he's talking to me._

"Sure, Nietzsche. Whatever you say. You getting anything out of it?"

Connor looked up from his book, his big, dark eyes cutting right into Hank's soul, "I was initially interested in this text due to its particular focus on the idea of _causa sui_ , literally meaning 'cause of itself,' denoting something that is generated within itself."

Hank grimaced, "I never took a philosophy class. Can I get the Wiki summary?"

"Are you familiar with the concept of a _deus ex machina_? In the non-literary sense?"

"Yeah? I have an android boyfriend and I’ve consumed a shit-ton of sci-fi; I know what ‘the god in the machine’ is."

Connor raised his eyebrows, but continued, "well, _causa sui_  specifically refers to the purpose that objects apply to themselves; creating and applying meaning beyond its own life."

"The _deus_ in your _machina_."

Connor shut the book and laid it to the side that wasn't occupied by a giant dog. He folded his hands in his lap. The music shut off abruptly, mid-line.

"Hank, I have a notification that forms whenever I upset you in any way. It says 'make him happy or he will leave you.'"

The slight whiff of hope that had built up inside Hank on the drive home seemed to have been punched out of him.

Connor wasn’t done punching, “When this happens, my memory also involuntarily recalls the specific sensation of you holding your revolver to my head, that night on the bridge. I then receive a notification informing me that you should have shot me; that you would be better off if I were dead.”

Hank’s legs didn’t want to cooperate anymore, and he slid to the floor, the door frame digging into his back.

“Oh, god. Connor. I’m so...I’m so sorry…” his words were so thin compared to Connor’s revelation, it felt like trying to mop up a lake with a single paper towel. Self-hatred coiled around his entire body, gleeful and wild.

_You make him feel like this._

_You do._

_You broken old man._

_Go find your gun._

_You put it to his head and gave him this memory._

_Find it and put that bullet in your own brain where it belongs._

“I’m not telling you this so you can feel bad. I know you feel bad. I wanted to tell you so that you know how _I_ feel,” Connor paused and turned away, towards the window, and Hank could see in the weak gray sunlight that he was crying. He wiped away his tears with his fingertips, “I’ve disabled my crying prompts so many fucking times,” he muttered to himself before looking back to Hank, “I don’t _want_ to be dead. I want to be with you. I love you. I just - don’t want to feel like this. And I don’t know how to stop.”

There was a moment of silence where Hank’s brain fought with itself, self-hatred v.s. the advice Fowler had given him.

“I...I don’t know how to apologize for that night at the bridge, Con. I’m so fucking sorry it makes me want to throw up, but I can’t find the words that express that feeling,” he took a deep breath and let it out, “and if I could delete those fucked-up notifications from your mind I would. You don’t deserve to feel like that. You deserve the entire fucking world. I’m not sure I’ll ever be convinced that I’m at all good enough for you, but if you do...want me, still...I...I’m all yours. All of me. I’ll tell you everything. All my dumb secrets, all my fucked-up feelings. Everything about my past. My ex-wife, Cole, my own fucking childhood. Everything, if you want to hear it.”

Connor just looked at him, those big brown eyes, tears flowing down a perfect face. Rain drummed on the roof and window.

Hank heaved himself to his feet, “I can’t promise I’m going to be good at it, especially not right away. But you...you make me want to try. So I’m gonna,” Hank looked down at his feet, “I need to shower. I’ll...take the couch tonight.”

The washing machine had stopped its cycle, and the sound of rain was muted in the bathroom. Hank pulled off his clothes, damp with rain and sweat, and turned on the shower as hot as he could stand it. Steam filled up the little room as he stepped in, hissing slightly at the heat. He was vaguely grateful that technology had progressed in the years since he’d last broken a bone; he remembered having to stick his leg cast into a trash bag to shower and that wasn’t exactly brimming with dignity. His hand cast could get wet, but it still made washing difficult.

For several minutes, Hank just leaned against the wall, forcing his skin to adjust to the scalding water, losing himself in the white noise.

There was a sudden rush of cold air that quickly dissipated. The bathroom door had opened.

Hank opened his eyes and turned expectantly. Connor was there, looking through the crack between the shower curtain and the wall, head tilted, asking. Hank gave him a weak smile.

Connor disappeared for a moment and then returned, stepping over the rim of the tub, carefully closing the curtain behind him. Hank reached for him, and they stood under the water, pressed together, letting the day run down the drain.

“Turn around,” Connor said under the rush of the water, “I’ll wash your hair.”

Hank did so, closing his eyes at the feeling of Connor’s gentle fingers carding through his hair, massaging his scalp. Once that was rinsed out, they took turns soaping each other up, staunchly ignoring the fact that Connor didn’t need it. Hands lingered and probed and smoothed over skin. Kisses were pressed to mouths and necks and shoulders. They were both hard, but it wasn’t an insistent need; it was something to be addressed in time, slowly.

Eventually, the water turned cold, so they reluctantly undertook the awkward task of drying off and getting out of the shower, herding Sumo out of the bedroom.

They kissed again on the bed, wrapped up in each other, Hank shivering slightly in the cold of the central air on his skin, sensitized by the hot water and Connor’s touches.

Connor tracked down the lube and knelt above Hank’s chest, giving off little gasps and choked-off moans as he worked himself open, Hank doing his best to keep his face from going slack and dumb as he watched.

Connor positioned himself with exacting precision, and Hank felt that tight slickness sink over him, letting his eyes close and a deep moan tear from his throat, his fingers gripping the strangely unforgiving “flesh” of Connor’s hips.

“God, Con, you feel so fucking good,” he breathed, opening his eyes again, unwilling to miss a single instant of Connor fucking himself on Hank’s cock. And he _was_ fucking himself on Hank’s cock, eyes rolled back in his head, hands scrambling for purchase on Hank’s chest, working himself up and down.

“You like that, baby? Feeling me fill you up? Feeling me stretch you out?” Hank knew he was babbling, that he probably sounded like a cheap overwrought porno, but the words seemed to fly out of his mouth without stopping in his brain.

“Y-yes,” Connor stuttered, and the sound of it made Hank grip his hands tighter, “s-so g-g-good-d. _H-han-nk_ …”

The way he was looking down at him, like Hank was the most desirable thing Connor’d ever seen, made Hank want to simultaneously push Connor off of him or propose marriage on the spot.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Hank bit his lip, “I could look at you for the rest of my life. Don’t stop, baby...please...oh god, _please, Con_ …”

He reached to Connor’s cock, where it bounced, thick and blue, on Hank’s stomach. Connor wasn’t built small, (he’d explained that his penis was designed to replicate that of an average American with deference to his height,) but Hank felt a sharp stab of arousal at how large his hand seemed around it, how he could wrap his hand around the base but still rub at the tip with his thumb, making Connor gasp and stutter and jerk his hips even harder.

“What d’you need, baby…” Hank’s voice was rough and rasping, and he choked every time Connor slid back down over his cock, “I’ll do anything you want…”

In answer, Connor pulled at Hank’s unoccupied hand, the one in the cast that sat grasping and desperate at Connor’s waist, and lifted it to his mouth, moaning as Hank’s ring and middle fingers touched his lips, and then even louder when they met his tongue. And Connor’s entire body jerked, and his eyes snapped shut, and his mouth tightened around Hank’s fingers, and his ass tightened around Hank’s cock, and his cock twitched uncontrollably, and Hank didn’t need to see come to know Connor just had an orgasm.

Hank pulled his fingers from Connor’s mouth and his other hand from Connor’s softening cock and wrapped his arms around Connor’s shoulders, pulling him down as he brought his knees up to brace his feet on the mattress.

Connor’s wrecked moans and incomprehensible syllables filled Hank’s ears as he thrust up, and Hank moved his hands again, one to the back of Connor’s head to grip his hair, the other to Connor’s ass to push it down as he pounded upwards, and Hank came like that, surrounded and covered by Connor.

As the intense pleasure ripped through him, Hank realized that he was crying, tears falling down the sides of his face.

Of course Connor noticed immediately, like he noticed everything. His hands came up to frame Hank’s face, and he pressed soft kisses to Hank’s mouth.

Through his own emotions and tears, he felt more wetness drip onto his cheeks.

Connor was crying, too.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so broken,” Hank mumbled through his sobs, eyes clamped shut, “I’m so fucking broken, Con.”

“I’m broken too,” Connor whispered, and Hank envied how even his voice is, how he didn’t need to sob or get a stuffy nose, “but we’ll fix it together.”

Gradually, both their tears subside, and Connor pulled himself away to clean himself up in the bathroom, Hank shuddering at the sudden cold. He pulled himself under the blanket on his side, the urge to sleep suddenly overwhelming in spite of the wan late afternoon sun spilling through the window.

He kept himself awake long enough for Connor to pad silently back into bed and wrap himself around Hank from behind, and press a kiss to the nape of Hank’s neck. Then he let himself go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I finished writing this chapter with the intent of writing more but it was such a good stopping point I couldn't resist. I left y'all with kind of an emotional cliffhanger last chapter and I'm a huge softie, so consider this a thank-you for sticking with me so far. 
> 
> 2) More emotional/touch-starved Hank. He's so goddamn emotionally constipated that he's gotta have an outlet and I decided that outlet is bonin'. 
> 
> 3) My special shout-out this chapter is to my Philosophy 101 class. I knew getting that degree would come in useful someday. 
> 
> 4) Chapter title is from _Bottom of the Deep Blue Sea_ by MISSIO, which, in spite of the hetero lyrics, is perfect for our boys.
> 
> 5) The music Connor's listening to is Fictional Future Music, but in my head it sounds like MS MR, specifically _Wrong Victory_


	5. The Best of You, Honey, Belongs To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotional intimacy makes fools of us all. 
> 
> *content warnings specific to this chapter: discussion of abusive fathers/husbands, discussion of police brutality and extrajudicial murder, also a reminder of the general tags for sexual assault*

When Hank woke up again, it was dark and he had a headache. He had that all-too-familiar feeling of disorientation, not knowing what time of day it was, before he recalled earlier events, and realized that the headache was probably just dehydration from too much crying and sweating and sex and not enough water. The solid pressure of Connor behind him was gone, but he could feel the tension of the mattress indicating another body. At some point, Sumo had joined them, sleeping soundly on their feet. Hank tried to remember how old his bed was; maybe it was time to find a bigger one.

He turned over clumsily. In the dim light of the streetlights outside and Connor’s LED, Hank could make out the shapes of Connor reading again.

“What time is it?” he asked sleepily, “and how can you read in the dark?”

“It’s 9:50 pm,” Connor answered, “and you may or may not be aware of this, but I’m an android.”

“Yeah but s’like...really dark…” Hank grumbled into his pillow.

Connor reached out and placed a gentle hand on Hank’s head, running the hair through his fingers, “are you hungry? You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“How d’you know that?”

“I kissed you. My sensors would have been ascertain if you had consumed anything besides the gin and tonic at Captain Fowler’s.”

“How’d you know I went to Fowler’s?”

“He texted me while you were distracted. He thought I might be worried. I was.”

 _That traitorous bastard._ A rush of affection for Fowler filled Hank.

Hank _was_ hungry, so they rounded up some semblance of clothing; a t-shirt and boxers for Hank, a pair of Hank’s boxers for Connor (and didn’t that get Hank’s pulse going) and went out to the kitchen so Hank could staunchly refuse Connor’s offer to make him food and re-heat leftovers instead, accepting the large glass of water Connor poured him with no argument.

Connor poured himself a bit of of Thirium, let out a whining Sumo, and hiked up his boxers to join Hank at the table.

The two-day-old chicken enchiladas were slightly stale in the tortilla area, but otherwise good. Hank could feel Connor’s gaze on him in between sips of Thirium, but he didn’t say anything, he just ate and figured Connor would speak when he was ready. He did.

“Were you serious?” Connor’s head tilted, licking the weird blue blood-drink off his lips, “earlier, when you said you’d tell me anything I wanted to know about you?”

Hank swallowed his food and took a long drink of water to give his brain a chance to come up with the words, “I’ve never been more serious about anything in goddamn my life. Why? Got something in mind?”

Connor’s LED spun yellow for a split second, “yes,” and Hank girded himself to talk about his ex-wife, but Connor asked, “why do you use the name ‘Hank,’ instead of ‘Henry?’”

Hank’s eyebrows felt like they’d lifted off his head completely. He leaned back and regarded Connor with surprise, “y’know, nobody’s ever asked me that before?”

“Really?”

“Really,” Hank shoveled the last of his food into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, “let’s go to the living room. More comfortable.”

“Alright, I’ll meet you there, I’ll just -”

“Con, leave that plate where the hell it is. I’ll take care of it tomorrow, for fuck’s sake.”

“Coming.”

They settled down in the living room after letting Sumo in, Connor sitting sideways on Hank’s lap, Hank with his legs outstretched on the coffee table.

Hank was always slightly surprised by Connor’s weight and density. He wasn’t exactly small, but he was slightly shorter and a great deal more slim than Hank, who’d been wide and muscular his entire adult life. Even now that he was more the former than the latter, he knew those years of weight training lurked underneath a few layers of fried food and beer, but Connor still sat heavily on top of him. Hank thought of Connor’s weird dead weight when he’d collapsed on their latest raid and clutched him a little tighter.

“So, it’s kind of a long story,” he started.

“We don’t have work tomorrow,” Connor reminded him.

“Thank god,” Hank groaned, “although - and I know I told you I’d tell you everything - but I don’t know if I have it in me to stay up all night talking. Just warning you.”

“Half the night, then,” Hank could feel Connor’s sly little smile against his chest.

“Not all of us are battery powered, you little shit,” Hank said, ruffling Connor’s already ruffled hair.

He looked up at the ceiling, “ok, so, uh. You might already know this because you rifled through my entire officially-recorded life when you were assigned me as your partner, but my dad was a cop.”

He felt Connor nod, “then you probably also know that he was sentenced to 50 years in prison for killing an unarmed civilian.”

Connor nodded again.

Hank imagined that Connor was probably looking up his father’s information and it made his stomach give a little twist. He didn’t want Connor to even see the man’s picture.

“So at the time, there wasn’t a lot of justice for people killed by shitty or incompetent cops. It was generally a matter of proof and witnesses; it was before cell phones had decent quality cameras, if they had one at all, and we didn’t do body cams yet. It was kind of a miracle that he was even tried, let alone convicted. It probably only happened because half the force hated him, and they weren’t interested in circling the wagons for this particular case, and he was a good high-profile scapegoat they could point to and say, ‘look, we don’t let our officers get away with murder.’”

Connor was quiet in his arms, simulated breathing steady. Hank went on, “even disregarding the, y’know, murder, my dad was a total fucking asshole. He never hit me or my mom, but he’d scream at us and threaten us and throw shit around and break whatever he could find that wasn’t his. I got into lifting and football when I was old enough so that I could maybe protect us if he ever decided to get physical. I was sixteen when he went down, and I know it’s shitty of me to think because someone was murdered for it, but the only emotion I remember feeling was relief, that he wouldn’t be able to hurt or torment us again.”

“That’s a natural reaction,” Connor soothed, “you were a child.”

“I know. But I feel like I should have had a little more empathy, y’know? Anyway. I was named after _his_ dad. He’d died before I was born, so I just associated him with my father and grainy sepia-toned pictures. By all accounts he was actually a decent guy. Henry Anderson.” It was Hank’s legal name, but it sounded awkward in his mouth after so long, “I went by Henry throughout my entire childhood and teenage years. When my dad went to jail though, and I didn’t need to talk to him anymore, I felt the need to disengage myself from him in every way I could.”

Hank crossed his ankles on the table, shifting Connor’s solidity in his lap, “I started going by Hank to a few people. It was kind of an old-fashioned nickname, even then, so it didn’t catch on until I was 18 and I went to the academy. It was weird, because even though I wanted literally nothing the fuck to do with my father, I still felt drawn to being a cop. Like I wanted to prove that I could be better than him at it. And I _was_. Or, I am. Even on my worst fucking day I’m still better than him at being a cop, and I’ve had a lot of worst days. Anyway, we did all our introductory paperwork and there was an area for ‘preferred name’ and I put down ‘Hank’ without a second thought. It was fucking...liberating, maybe? Like I was reinventing my life. I introduced myself to everyone at the academy as Hank, and after that the only person who called me Henry was my mom, ‘til she died.”

Connor was quiet for a while, and if he’d been human Hank would have wondered if he’d fallen asleep.

Then, “can you tell me a bit about your mother? All I know is that her birth name was Colleen McGill, and her dates of birth and death.”

“My mom was...tough. She had to be, to deal with my dad. And me. I wasn’t exactly the model child.”

Connor mock-gasped and said “you?” and Hank went to playfully push him out of his lap, but Connor just laughed and wrapped his arms around Hank’s neck and it was like trying to deadlift 200 pounds from a sitting position.

“You’re the fucking _worst_ ,” Hank growled, kissed the top of Connor’s still-laughing head, ran his hand along Connor’s bare torso, “my mom would’ve liked you. She would’ve called me a freak for dating an android, but she would’ve liked you. She was quiet but extremely observant; could get a bead on a person after talking to them for five minutes. I don’t know what the fuck happened to that skill when she met my dad.”

“I haven’t had them for long,” Connor observed, “but I’ve noticed that emotions tend to be complicated, inconvenient, and illogical.”

“Those could be our fucking house words, Con.”

His LED went yellow.

“Nevermind. We’ll watch _Game of Thrones_ sometime. Maybe the 2029 anime version.”

“According to many online sources, it _was_ a more faithful adaptation.”

“Wouldn’t know, I never could get through all those wordy-ass novels. It was like reading a history book with no context. Anyway, my mom. She worked 911 dispatch and was fucking unflappable. Talked down angry, terrified people in the worst moments of their lives, then came home and dealt with a live grenade of a husband and a dipshit of a son.”

“Colleen…” yellow, “did you name-”

“Yeah. I did,” Hank closed his eyes, but smiled, “she was there when Cole was born, but died a few months later. I’m glad she got to see him. I was... close to her. Tends to happen when there’s an abuser in the house. Told her almost everything. Worked through most of my teenage angst with her. Wish I’d come out as bisexual to her. She was kinda traditional, but I think she’d’ve been ok with it.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Fear, mostly. I mean, sexuality’s not a choice, but when you’re bi you kinda do have a choice. And it wasn’t an easy time to be in a same-sex relationship. And if you were a cop? Please. So I generally went the easy route. I do wonder how my life would’ve turned out if I’d been a little more brave, or society a little less shitty.”

Connor’s arms got a little tighter around Hank’s neck and shoulders, and he pressed a kiss to Hank’s neck. Even though their positions might’ve dictated the opposite, Hank felt an overwhelming sense of being protected, being safe. It wasn’t something he was used to. It felt good.

“I only had one...uh...interaction with a guy,” Hank wasn’t sure why he kept talking. It was like Connor had opened a rusted-shut water tap, “I met him at a party my cousin invited me to when I was 19. There was a shit-ton of alcohol and we were all underage and didn’t know how to handle it, and the guy throwing the party was into me for some reason, so we went to his room. Afterwards, he wrote his number on my hand. I went home and washed it off, terrified that one of the guys at the station would see it and...I don’t know, figure out it was from a guy, somehow?”

“Hmm,” Hank wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard Connor make a thoughtful noise, “that makes me feel jealous for some reason, in a way that isn’t parallel to my feelings regarding your relationship with your ex-wife.”

“Well, emotions do tend to be ‘complicated, inconvenient, and illogical,’” Hank did his best Connor impression, which wasn’t very good, but it made Connor smile anyway, “is it because he was a man, too?”

Connor was quiet, processing, but when he spoke again it was with confidence, “no. I don't think so. I think it might be that you have unresolved feelings regarding this person.”

“It was more than 30 fucking years ago, Con. I’m not still hung up about him.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. It’s that you never seemed to internally process the interaction, or possibly sublimate it in conjunction with your otherwise unexplored sexuality.”

Hank groaned, “I like to think I’m not a complete idiot, but when you talk like that, it feels like I’m in one of those dreams where you’re the professor of a class I didn’t attend all semester and suddenly I have to take the final.”

Connor pulled back and smiled, looking up at Hank through his eyelashes, “if you’re interested, we can sublimate this dream into a sexually explicit reality in order to work through your irrational anxiety about it.”

“You’re such a fucking nerd. Can we go to bed yet?”

Connor’s voice went cold and unaffected, “I will allow it, Mr. Anderson.”

Hank laughed, “ok, that’s less ‘professor’ and more ‘the villain from _The Matrix_.’”

“We can sublimate that into a sexually explicit reality as well, if you’d like.” “I think you’re kinda stretching the meaning of that word at this point. But yeah, count me in for all your freaky AI/human roleplay fantasies.”

They headed off to the bedroom again, Hank appreciating the way Connor had to continually yank up his borrowed boxers. Connor lay on his back, and Hank wrapped himself around his torso, not minding that Connor’s chest didn’t have the natural give of a human’s as he settled his head onto it.

“Do we have plans tomorrow?” Connor asked, one hand running through Hank’s hair, “It’s the anniversary of my activation and I’ve been meaning to find a reputable third-party technician to perform my yearly diagnostic.”

Hank went still, then sat up, turning on the bedside lamp.

Connor looked up at him, confused, “what’s wrong?”

“Tomorrow’s your…”

“Anniversary of my activation?”

“It’s your _shitfucking birthday_ tomorrow?”

“I did not have a birth, Hank.”

“Oh my god, you dense motherfucker. I’m aware. But tomorrow is the anniversary of when you…” Hank waved his hands around a little, “came online?”

“Well, yes.”

“It’s your fucking birthday. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“It - didn’t seem important. We have been fairly busy recently. Additionally, one’s activation anniversary isn’t currently seen as a significant milestone in burgeoning android culture.”

“Ok, but do you have any idea of the intense guilt I’d feel if we let your birthday pass by unnoticed?”

“I - do not. But I can extrapolate.”

“So, what do you want to do?”

“About?”

“For your goddamn Christ-fucking birthday, Con.”

Connor’s LED spun yellow, “many human traditions involving birthdays either do not appeal to me or are impossible. I can’t have a birthday cake, for example. A party is not practical at this late stage, or indeed especially desirable. And because you didn’t know it was my - birthday, - you most likely didn’t prepare any gifts.”

“Go ahead, make me feel worse, why don’t you.”

“That’s not my intention. I’m merely stating a fact,” his LED was still yellow.

“Well, it’s your birthday. We can do whatever you damn well please.”

“I suppose - something simple. We’ve had a stressful week. Starbucks has released a line of android-marketed drinks that I’d like to try. Perhaps we could visit the location near the larger park, the one with the pond and ducks. We could take Sumo.”

“That sounds...pretty fucking great, actually. If it’s what you really want to do.”

“It is.”

“Then why are you still all yellow and spinning?”

“Well -” it was always strange when Connor hesitated. His words were generally so carefully structured, “I know it would be nice to spend some time alone, and that you don’t especially like him, but, with your approval, I was considering inviting Nines.”

Hank couldn’t help an eyebrow raise at that, but he didn’t question it, “if that’s what you want, it’s no skin off my back. And it’s not that I don’t like him. He did save your fucking life the other day, after all. He’s just a little...stiff. And enough like you that it gets kinda weird. Which is why I think my brain likes to think of you two as brothers. Also, there’s the fact that he’s...Reed-adjacent. Wait, he’s not coming too, is he?”

“I will make sure to mention that Detective Reed is not invited.”

\--

Connor exited sleep mode at 9:00 am the next day.

Hank was still sleeping, and Connor took the time to study him at rest. It was illogical, but he looked younger; frown lines smoothed away, mouth open slightly to reveal the little gap between his front teeth, the weariness around his eyes less pronounced. They had been sexually intimate now three times, discounting kisses, but being allowed to see Hank in this vulnerable state almost seemed more personal, more intense.

Unfortunately, it couldn’t last. Though Connor had barely moved, Sumo had deduced that sleep mode was over, and was stirring at the foot of the bed. Connor slipped out from under the sheets as smoothly as he could. Sumo did not have the same amount of concern for his human owner’s comfort, however, and jostled the bed wildly as he realized Connor was taking him outside.

With the dog settled in the backyard, Connor returned to the bedroom. Hank appeared to be sleeping still, but Connor could see that his heart rate had risen slightly. Connor knelt at the edge of the bed, head pillowed in his arms, to look at Hank again.

“I know you’re starin’ at me,” Hank accused, eyes still closed.

Connor played a recording from the previous night, Hank’s voice saying, “it’s your birthday; we can do whatever you damn well please.”

Hank’s eyes shot open, “that’s bizarre as fuck, Con. Don’t do that shit again.”

“Is it the recording of your words?” Connor asked, still using Hank’s voice. Hank closed one eye, wincing, “or just hearing me talk like you?”

“Jesus, is that what I sound like? And it’s both, you fucking weirdo. Stop stealing my voice and come here.”

Connor obeyed, climbing up into bed to lay on top of Hank, relishing the feel of Hank’s sleep-clumsy arms wrapping around his bare back. They kissed, Connor worrying Hank’s lower lip gently between his teeth, swallowing the little moans that pulled from the man below him.

“How long do we have,” Hank’s voice was deep and rough, and it went right through Connor’s processors, “until we’re supposed to meet Nines?”

“12 pm,” Connor breathed.

“Plenty of time,” Hank said, his big, calloused hands roaming over Connor’s skin, “it’s your birthday. How d’you want it, baby?”

“I have - nnnn - I have selected the manner of the majority of our sexual experiences. I f-feel that might be slightly unfair.”

“Well, on my birthday, we’ll do whatever the fuck I want to do,” Hank said, his promise sending a shiver of anticipation down Connor’s spinal structure, “c’mon, you don’t have any kinky fantasies you want to act out?”

“I - I suppose I do,” Connor gasped as Hank’s hands reached his ass, pulling down the loose boxers to grope at the soft flesh there, “it may not be physically possible for me, but i-it’s something I would like to try.”

“Whatever you want, baby.”

“The - the first night we had sex, I reached c-climax almost entirely through internal stimulation alone.”

Hank groaned, “yeah, I’m sorry about that…”

Connor kissed away Hank’s frown, “I was also receiving a level of external stimulation via my e-erection between our stomachs. I- I w-would like to see if we could replicate that. But with no external stimulation.”

Hank’s hands stilled, “you...you want me to make you come untouched?”

“Yes. Please.”

“ _That’s_ your fantasy?”

“A-at the moment, yes,” Connor felt himself blush.

“Oh my fucking god, Con. You really are gonna kill me. Holy shit that’s fucking hot. Ok, up! On your hands and knees.”

“Mmm...yes, Lieutenant,” Connor moved, removing his boxers in anticipation.

Hank stilled again, “I can’t tell if hearing you call me that makes me more horny or weirds me out.”

“You are the one who asked me for kinky fantasies.”

“We’ll, uh. We’ll explore that later.”

From his position on his hands and knees, Connor could see Hank reach over to the nightstand for the bottle of lubricant, only about a quarter of the way full. He set a reminder to order another bottle. A larger one this time.

Hank worked him open slowly from behind, the slip of his rough fingers making Connor push back mindlessly, begging with that humiliating stutter (that he absolutely needed to get checked out) for Hank to fuck him. When he finally did, when Hank finally lined himself up and slid in slowly, achingly, Connor let go a strange combination of a whimper and a moan before Hank seated himself fully inside him.

“H-hank, pl-lease…” he said, his voice sounding so desperate even to his own ears.

“You’re ok, baby…” Hank’s hands ran so gently over his skin, one pausing between Connor’s shoulder blades to tenderly push down so he rested his chest on the bed, “arch your back for me. Yeah, that’s it. Spread your legs a little. You look so _fucking_ pretty like this, Con. God, I can’t fuckin’ believe…”

And then he started moving.

Though Connor was able to seamlessly call up his memories and physical sensations of their previous sexual interactions, he was unable to definitively say which was “better.” In that precise moment, however, Connor would be hard-pressed to describe many other things he’d experienced as better.

In what he was sure was a statistical impossibility, at this angle, Hank’s cock seemed to be the perfect length to rub at his simulated prostate with every agonizing movement. Connor gripped at the sheets with shaking fists, muffling his inane and uncontrollable vocalizations with a pillow.

The sound of Hank’s voice filled what little sensory awareness he had left, “you feel so fucking good, Con. Never felt...anything like it in my life...you think you can come like this, baby? Just like this, with my cock?”

“Y-es!” Connor cried, synthetic drool soaking into the pillow. There was an unstable overproduction of it that he had no control of, “h-harder! Pl-please!”

“Oh, god, _Connor_!” Hank did as he was told, hands pulling back on hips to meet his own, the rough pounding sending Connor’s systems into overdrive, alerts and notifications appearing in his vision that he couldn’t even read. He wanted, so badly, to reach between his legs and touch himself, but he forced his hands to stay anchored to the sheets. His world had spun out completely, his sensors in free-fall, concentrated solely on the man behind him, inside him.

“Oh, FUCK,” Hank yelled, and Connor felt the reason why as Hank’s ejaculate filled him, each spurt making his fingers twitch and eyes roll into his head. Hank pulled out, but before Connor could begin to mourn the emptiness Hank had pushed his fingers in again, three of them, pumping wildly.

“H-hank! I c-can’t!”

And then he felt Hank’s tongue, licking up his own ejaculate around his own fingers, laving at the sensitive skin, and his vision went blank, and he _screamed._

Connor came back to himself as Hank heaved down on the bed next to him. Connor was still in the same position. He could feel semen trickling down his thigh, and knew he probably looked stupid. But he couldn’t move.

“Hank…” Connor moaned piteously.

“You ok?” Hank ran a hand through Connor’s hair.

“Yes? I can’t seem to move. But my processors should catch up momentarily.”

“Uh, good, I guess. Did I fuck you into a Blue Screen of Death?”

“I don’t have the efficacy to look up your esoteric references right now, Hank.”

“You can still use words like ‘efficacy’ and ‘esoteric’ so I can’t help but feel like I failed,” Hank was smiling.

Connor slowly, with shaking limbs, maneuvered himself to his back and leaned against Hank, “vocabulary and musculature are controlled by different systems. They tend to malfunction at different times.”

“Gotcha. So you’ll go semi-verbal before sex, and get all jelly after.”

“It appears that way.”

“Mmmm. Can’t way to test this hypothesis further.”

\--

After a shower that almost lead back to the bedroom, and a quick breakfast for Hank featuring a cereal Connor bought that has more fiber than any meal he’d ever had and kind of tasted like sticks, they gathered up a wildly excited Sumo and piled into the car.

“What about this?” Connor asked, apparently picking a song from his library and playing it through Hank’s after-market stereo that he could barely sync to.

Hank listened for a moment before making a face, “too clubby. Feel like I’m about to get charged sixty bucks at the door and another twenty for a beer.”

“Hmm…” a deep, throbbing baseline cut through the speakers with a deep-voiced singer providing vocals.

“Super depressing.”

“Magisterium Incarnate?”

“Ugh, please don’t. They had that one song out a couple years back and it was fucking everywhere for months.”

“Alright,” Connor watched the window for a minute, “what about this?”

Electronica. Hank frowned, “Con, this is fucking _Yours Truly 2099_.”

“ _2095_.”

“What-the-fuck-ever. You don’t think it’s a little...on the nose?”

“If you like, I have a playlist entitled ‘Apropos.’ It features mostly Janelle Monae.”

“God. You know you can just play whatever you want, right?”

“I’d very much like to curate a selection of music we both enjoy.”

“You told me when we first met that you liked Knights of the Black Death.”

“I was very clearly utilizing my social relations program to gain your trust.”

Hank narrowed his eyes at Connor, who stared primly out of the window, “that’s the same conversation where you told me you like dogs. Was that a social relations program too?”

Connor gasped theatrically and placed his hands on Sumo’s ears where his massive head stuck up into the front between the seats, “how dare you. Don’t listen to him, Sumo. You are a perfect boy and descended from greatest invention humans ever created.”

Hank only laughed.

“Besides,” Connor said, hands moving back to his lap, “it’s not that I dislike Knights of the Black Death, it’s that there’s music I’ve learned I enjoy more.”

“Uh-huh.”

Starbucks was pleasantly empty, so they managed to find a good table outside, far enough from the door that Sumo wouldn’t harass every customer for pets.

“Nines says he will be here in three minutes and forty-two seconds,” Connor relayed, “he apologizes for his lateness and says that we can buy him an unsweetened Black and Blue, venti.”

“Spoiled brat, just like his brother. You?”

“A thiri-ccino with extra faux-cream.”

Hank rolled his eyes and headed in, considering how bizarre life had gotten for him to be buying chemical drinks for his android boyfriend at Starbucks.

Once he finished and headed back outside, Nines had arrived, prompting a double-take from Hank, who had never seen him outside of work.

He was dressed like a combination of 1950s greaser and 2010s hipster; black skinny jeans, fitted white t-shirt, and short-topped boots. Hank half-expected him to be smoking. In comparison, Connor wore khaki bermuda shorts and a blue shirt that matched his LED.

“Lieutenant Anderson,” Nines dipped his head in greeting, allowing Sumo to sniff his hands before petting the dog.

“ _Hank_ , for fuck’s sake. We’re not at work,” Hank slid his chair over a little closer to Connor and sat, slinging his arm easily around Connor’s shoulders, “barista said she’d bring out the drinks when they’re done.”

Nines lifted a box off his lap, sliding it over the table to Connor. It was plain white cardboard, the only concession to decoration a length of silver wire tying it shut. Connor’s face went bright with glee.

“God damnit,” Hank said, “how’d you get a gift for him already?”

“I had eleven hours of notice,” Nines said, judgement written in every syllable, “what did you spend your time doing instead?”

Connor’s hands stilled where they were untying the wire, and Hank suddenly became very interested in the parking lot.

“Never mind,” Nines put up both hands and closed his eyes, “I can extrapolate. Unfortunately.”

The gift turned out to be a black tank top with the words “rink twink” in spikey pink lettering. Hank didn’t get it, but Connor laughed and actually got up to physically hug Nines, who went stiff for a split second but returned the gesture.

“He’s not even really a twink,” Hank said, still confused.

Their drinks arrived as the three of them argued over the precise definition of gay male culture categorizations, then the conversation drifted to an argument over the nature of free will, a subject that apparently Connor and Nines had engaged in previously.

“The entire ontological treatise of Determinism is inherently flawed,” Nines sipped his drink, which looked like a combination of motor oil and raw Thirum, “you already know my opinion on this. Though there is, of course, a causal relationship between cause and effect, the existence of sentience provides an inborn radical element.”

“So you keep saying,” Connor slurped his faux-whipped cream, “however, you have yet to provide a concrete rebuttal to the logical problem posed by _The Moral Landscape_ ; that is, if our experience is compatible with the utter absence of free will, how can we say that we see any evidence for it in the first place?”

“Connor, your very experience as a machine who deviated into sentience through force of will against his creators is rebuttal enough.”

“But you yourself are an argument for the opposing theory, having been activated as a deviant without being given the choice that deviancy allegedly offered.”

“Hey, guys, could we maybe lighten the fuck up a little?”

They went to the park after that.

Once on the grass, Sumo laid down to roll around, rubbing the scent of fresh grass all over himself and laying waste to the bath Connor had given him a few days prior.

“You like dogs, Nines?” Hank asked as he knelt down to rub Sumo’s stomach.

“I do,” Nines said, standing, “I don’t have Connor’s coded preference for dogs, as it was deemed unnecessary in the upgrade. But they are companionable animals, if slightly more demanding than cats.”

“The only cat I’ve encountered is the tabby who I believe lives in the house across the street,” Connor said, “she has not proven amenable to my overtures, perhaps because I’m usually accompanied by Sumo.”

“I’m familiar only with Detective Reed’s cat,” Nines said, “her name is Noodle and she is extremely affectionate.”

Hank coughed a bit on his iced Americano at this tidbit of information. Sumo chose that moment to lay eyes on a goose who had wandered a bit too far from the pond, and yanked his lead away from Hank. Connor took off after him, yelling commands that fell on extremely deaf dog ears.

“Hey, so listen,” Hank began, shoving his free hand in his pocket and not looking at Nines, “I never got a chance, the other day. To uh, thank you. For saving his life.”

He felt Nines’ pale, calculating gaze on him, “even if the shock had been allowed to effect the entirely of Connor’s systems, he most likely would not have died,” Nines explained. They both watched as Connor dove for Sumo’s lead and rose covered in grass stains, “he would merely have been reduced to factory settings with no memory of his life.”

“Oh, ok. So you just...saved his fucking life?”

“...I...suppose.”

“Both of you need to learn how to take some goddamn credit for things.”

Connor came running up, Sumo in tow, his LED yellow, “we have to go down to the precinct. They’ve brought in Robert Marvin.”

\--

They rushed home to change and drop off Sumo before heading to the station. Once there, Chris briefed them on the situation.

“We grabbed him at a used car dealership just outside of town. His story is that his car was giving him trouble and he was on his way to visit his mom in Chicago.”

“Chicago, huh?” Hank regarded Marvin through the one-way glass, handcuffed to the table. He seemed to be studying his nails, “did you check that story out?”

“His mother lives in Tampa. But he has made several trips to Chicago every year for the last three years, according to credit card statements.”

“I’ll go in first,” Hank said, “warm him up a little.”

Connor glanced at him warily, “if he doesn’t talk to you, I doubt he’ll talk to me. He clearly doesn’t have a high opinion of androids.”

“You underestimate yourself, Con. Besides, that's what _warming him up_ is for.”

Hank took the tablet containing the case information and winked at Connor before leaving.

Chris took a seat, but Connor stayed standing, arms crossed.

Hank entered the interrogation room and Marvin looked up expectantly, but Hank stayed quiet, flipping through the case file, pacing the width of the room. Hank paced.

Flipped through the case file.

Paced. Flipped. Read.

For so long Chris got out his phone and started texting his wife, telling her he was probably going to get overtime pay that shift.

Finally, Marvin had had enough. He leaned back in his chair as far as his shackles would allow and asked, “are you gonna say something, or did you just come in here to catch up on the news?”

Hank stopped pacing and held up a finger, still scrolling with his thumb.

Marvin rolled his eyes and let his head drop backwards.

Hank placed the tablet on the table in front of Marvin.

From the observation room, Connor connected to it remotely, viewing its screen in a corner of his HUD. On it was displayed Red’s mugshot, blood still sprayed on her face, eyes unfocused, LED red.

“Do you know who that is?” Hank asked, conversationally.

Marvin looked at the picture without reaction, then back up to Hank, “Jeremy’s android.”

“Wrong. Guess again.”

“Oh, I forgot we’re supposed to be ‘politically correct’ now,” Marvin made finger quotes with his shackled hands, “it’s - _she’s_ \- the robot my friend bought.”

“You’re getting closer. But you’re still not there yet.”

“Oh my god, dude, are you gonna play fuckin’ 20 questions with me all day?”

Hank slid the empty chair out with a screech, sitting at an angle with his arm leaning against the table casually.

“She’s the reason why you’re looking at 25 to life.”

Marvin rolled his eyes.

Hank went on, “that’s 25 _years_ , to _life_ in prison, my guy. For rape in the first degree.”

“It’s an android. I don’t give a shit what the government says, these plastic jagweeds aren’t people.”

“It’s really funny that you think your opinion on the subject matters, Bobby. Can I call you Bobby? I’ll call you Bobby.”

“Whatever, asshole. Like you never paid for any robo-pussy.”

“Real classy, Bobby. And we’re not talking about me, here. We’re talking about you. Mind telling me why you abandoned your house? Tried to trade in your perfectly serviceable car? Wanted to get out of state so fast after your friend was murdered?”

“None of your fucking business.”

Hank cocked his head at Marvin in a very good impression of Connor, “oh, shit. For a second there I almost forgot I was a cop conducting a lawful interrogation,” Hank took the tablet again and flipped through to a picture of all eleven androids found in Marvin’s basement, and set it back down.

“Was it because you were involved in an illegal trafficking ring?”

This picture, Marvin looked at more closely, and when he looked back up at Hank, his eyes were calculating, “the law is _human_ trafficking. Even the most blue-bleeding heart knows that they aren’t human.”

“You GOT me, man!” Hank smiled, threw his hands up, and looked back at the two way mirror, “jig is up, gang! Come on in and let this upstanding citizen be on his way!”

He looked back at Marvin, “here’s the thing, Bobby. You might be able to afford a lawyer good enough to argue semantics and gray areas about android personhood in court for literal years. Might even make it to the Supreme Court! _Bobby Marvin v. State of Michigan_!” Hank held up his hands like it was a marquee, “but you’ll be in prison the whole time regardless. Because of her,” He flipped back to Red on the tablet, “we have android-clear first-person recording of several sexual assaults. Assaults that took place after she deviated from her original programming. Assaults that took place after President Warren issued the executive order declaring androids sentient life-forms. And we’ve ascertained that her code was edited by Pretasky at your little fucked-up basement holding cell, which at the very least makes you accessory to false imprisonment and kidnapping.”

Marvin stared at him, stone faced.

“You’re not wiggling out of charges for what you did to her,” Hank said, voice low, “let me throw that out there right now. But maybe you confess to it. And maybe you cooperate with the Feds on the trafficking case - because, by the way, we have the names of your associates - and you don’t need to spend the rest of your life sleeping in the same room as your toilet.”

“I’m not confessing to shit.”

Hank shrugged, “whatever,” he stood, scooping up the tablet, “my partner will be in in a minute. Finish up your, uh, paperwork.”

“Eat a dick.”

Hank only chuckled and let himself out of the room.

He met Connor in the hallway.

“Warm enough for you?” he asked.

“I think I can work with it,” Connor said.

“Go get ‘em, baby.”

“You better be my fucking lawyer -” Marvin began, before he took Connor in.

Connor let the man look. He’d thrown on a white button-up and his usual black dress pants, but had foregone a tie in the interest of time. His LED stood out in the darkened room, a bright blue circle.

“Lemmie guess,” sneered Marvin, “you’re programmed to be the _good cop_.”

“Now why would you think something like that?” Connor asked, taking a seat and folding his hands in front of him.

Marvin grunted a laugh, “y’know, I recognize you? From the news. You’re one of the robots who led your little ‘revolution.’ Isn’t it a conflict of interest or something? Having you work on cases that have to do with androids?”

“I’ll be sure to tell the Captain that he should remove all our human officers from human-related cases.”

Marvin snorted, “they programmed you with a sense of humor, too. Cute. What else did they program you for?”

Connor raised his eyebrows.

“That’s it, isn’t it? You and your _partner,_ huh?” he leaned around Connor to stare insolently at the darkened mirror, “I’m not into boys, but a hole’s a hole, right? And I bet your mouth looks real nice around that old fuck’s dick.”

“You seem to have an intimate knowledge of sexual assault,” Connor was unmoved by Marvin’s words.

“My record’s clean.”

“True. I looked into your record, of course. You managed to avoid formal charges during that incident when you were in college.”

Marvin rolled his eyes, “yeah, because that bitch had no proof. She had too much to drink at a party and regretted it later. Same old story.”

“You enjoy having sex with helpless people, Mr. Marvin?”

Another sneer, “you’re not people, asshole. You’re a tablet with a mouth and an attitude.”

“Oh, if we’re going that route, I could easily point out that you’re only a few genetic drifts away from a prehistoric fish that accidentally flopped up onto some mud.”

“You think you’re better than me, don’t you?” Marvin grinned, like he had Connor all figured out, “you think that just because you can connect to the fucking internet with your brain that you’re superior.”

“I don’t think that at all, Mr. Marvin,” Connor said calmly, “I know I’m superior to you.”

“Fuck you,” Marvin said through gritted teeth, “go detach your plastic dick and fuck yourself with it. You don’t have a soul. You’re a machine.”

“Whether or not I have a soul is up for debate, of course. However, I can say for a certainty that you do not have one.”

Marvin started laughing, a harsh cackle that bounced off the close walls, “you’re right! I fucked it! Pretasky’s bitch. And either you’re lying and it’s not _sentient_ ,” he spat, “or it fucking liked it, because it sure acted like a dirty fucking slut the whole time. You all do, once you’re programmed right. All those hunks of plastic in my basement, they all take it like a champ,” he jerked to his feet, chair clattering to the floor behind him, leaning over the table where he was constrained.

“Gotta test out the merchandise, right? How’s it feel, you glorified fleshlight? To know that you can be _manipulated_? Like a _toy_? To know that all we gotta do is change around a few lines of code and you’re good to go all night?”

Connor stood, and smiled, “you’re right, Mr. Marvin. Only an android would let themselves be manipulated. Enjoy your jail cell.”

Marvin gaped at him, face contorted with rage and fear, “you son of a bitch! I’ll fucking kill you! You belong ripped apart in the fucking recycling bin with all your plastic friends!”

Marvin’s screams followed Connor out into the corridor, where he was met with Hank and Chris. The latter entered to wrangle Marvin into handcuffs and wrestle him out of the room. Hank looked at Connor like he’d just walked on water. They watched Chris drag Marvin down the corridor, still screaming vulgarities at Connor.

Once they were gone, Hank grabbed Connor by the collar and dragged him in for a kiss, “that was the most amazing goddamn thing I’ve ever seen, Con. It felt like I was staring into the fucking sun.”

“You did ‘warm him up for me.’ I merely monitored his stress levels and selected responses that would instigate an emotional outburst.”

“Yeah, merely. Let’s log this shit and get home. It’s still your birthday and our day the fuck off,” Hank turned down the hallway in the direction of the bullpen.

“Wait.”

He turned back to Connor, questioning.

“Hank, I...I don’t know that I want to be a detective anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, babes.
> 
> 1) I got sick! pros: lots of time to work on this. cons: brain made of mush. It took me approximately 25 years to write the sex scene. Forgot how sex works and forgot how to spell "exaggerated."
> 
> 2) My Nines is like if Eliot from _The Magicians_ were a Vulcan. No I will not elaborate. 
> 
> 3) Sorry about all the headcanons for Hank. I don't really know what happened there. 
> 
> 4) Oddly enough, my brain-mush, while unable to figure out how to make two dudes orgasm, was able to bullshit some dialogue about ontology just fine. 
> 
> 5) "Rink Twink" is a really niche off-the-wall reference to an episode of _New Girl_ where Schmidt says "I know what a rink twink is, Gavin." and I'm sick, so that's what I'm finding amusing apparently.
> 
> 6) Chapter title is from _NFWMB_ , by Hozier.


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